


Maelstrom

by feelslikefire



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-03
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 04:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 43,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8734612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feelslikefire/pseuds/feelslikefire
Summary: Victor Nikiforov is poised to win gold in his fifth consecutive Grand Prix Final. He has the world at his feet, is unparalleled in the sport--right up until a snowstorm blows into Sochi, and he finds himself repeating the same day over and over and over. He stumbles over Yuuri Katsuki, and everything changes.(Or, the time loop au. Loosely based on Groundhog Day.)Beta'd for me, as always, by circ_bamboo, who as usual isn't even in this fandom but still loves me enough to read my writing anyway.





	1. Chapter 1

Somewhere in the woods, a loon cries.

Victor Nikiforov slows, lingering for a moment. He cocks his head, listening to see if the cry will come again, but no further sound breaks the perfect silence of the wilderness. Victor exhales, and watches steam puff in front of his mouth before dissipating in the crisp air. 

He’s alone. Not even Maccachin is here, though Victor thinks his dog would like this place: wild and quiet and pristine as anything he’s ever seen. Elegant black trees line the path he walks, their branches draped in gauzy veils of ice, banks of snow engirdling their trunks. No footprints mar the fallen snow in front of him; no signposts point the way. 

But that’s fine. Victor already knows where he is going—just as he knows he must get there soon, or else the one waiting for him may grow impatient. He does not want to make her mad. So he starts walking again, hurrying along the path that winds through the endless stretch of woods.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been walking for; he is not yet tired, but off in the distance the sun is going down. Already its brilliance sinks below the treeline, twilight creeping stealthy through the woods like an intruder. Victor walks a little faster, unease stirring in the pit of his stomach for the first time. 

Darkness comes early in the forest, and Victor does not want to be out of doors when it arrives.  

There—up ahead, hardly visible through the trees—lights! A house! Relief sweeps through him. Victor breaks into a smile, hurrying forward, almost jogging now. He startles badly as a black cat streaks across his path. Victor catches only a glimpse of its twitching tail as it vanishes into the underbrush at the edge of the path. “Дерьмо,” he mutters under his breath, and swallows.

Victor walks the last length of the path to the house in the middle of the woods, but it’s a near thing. 

The house is small, little more than a hut; a plume of smoke rises steadily from the chimney that juts from the thatched roof. The stone walls of the builded are faded and covered in lichen, giving it the look of a structure right out of a history book. The path he’s on leads directly to the front walk of the house—a small flight of three stone steps that rise to meet the front door, flanked by heavy stone pillars that sit at an angle alongside the stairs. Curiously, the pillars are carved to resemble extended bird legs, and from where Victor is, it’s enough to give the house the appearance of standing atop them, as though at a given moment it might run off.

For a moment, he hesitates, gazing long at the stone legs, at the thatched roof and its ancient stone walls. But the light that shines through the windows is warm and inviting, and darkness is just minutes from drawing down around his ears. 

It’s enough for Victor. He reaches a hand out to touch the door, and it swings open beneath his hand. Victor walks inside, finding himself in a room with a fireplace, wooden table, rocking chair, and a bed shoved in the corner. At the table is a roughly-carved wooden chair, and in the chair sits a woman. 

Her eyes are black, and so is her hair, bound in braids about her head. She wears old, traditional clothes, like something out of a storybook; she could be any age at all—Victor cannot guess, and knows better than to try. 

“Victor Nikiforov,” says the woman. Her voice is clear and striking, like the bells of St. Petersburg. The way she says his name sends a shiver down Victor’s spine. He bows deeply, from the waist, and when he straightens he can see that she’s smiling. 

She gestures at the table, and Victor sees a second wooden chair. He sits down across from her, and wonders how to ask his question. She gazes across the table at him, saying nothing; he gets the feeling she’s laughing at him, and feels himself turning red. 

“Speak,” she says after another few moments. “What did you come here to ask me?”

Victor takes a deep breath. “What am I missing?” he asks. “Why can’t I find what I’m looking for?”

She stares at him for a long moment, as if taking his measure—and finding him wanting, despite her initial approval. “You are looking in all the wrong places,” she says. “You clearly need more time to see what is there.” 

Before Victor can respond to this, she stands, going to the fireplace against the wall. She reaches for something in her dresses, and with a snarled word she flings a handful of powder into the open flames.

Smoke erupts from the fire, many-colored smoke like a magician’s parlor trick. Victor jerks back automatically from the roaring flames, shielding his face with his arms, and when he drops them again it’s to see an empty hut with no trace of the woman in sight. He stands, starting to panic as he looks around the room. He came all this way—she _can’t_ just run off and leave him here—

Something outside howls. Victor turns towards the large windows at the back of the hut, looking out into the now-dark forest, and is arrested at the sight that greets his eyes. Where before was the placid serenity of a quiet forest, a blizzard now rages. Snow hurtles past the window panes, almost completely obscuring the dark bodies of the trees just beyond the walls of the hut. It’s the wind that Victor hears, howling like a wild animal, rattling the windows and threatening to blow the smoke from the fire back into the building.

Victor is mesmerized. He’s seen blizzards—he’s from St. Petersburg, after all—but the ferocity of this storm is something else altogether. He approaches the window, staring in fascination as winter’s fury unleashes on the forest outside. Through the wind he thinks he can almost hear something. Victor wrinkles his nose, concentrating hard. Is that…

…Guitar?

* * * * *

_”YOU’D MAKE A GROWN MAN CRYYYY-YYYY—_ ”

Victor jerks awake as Mick Jagger rudely starts caterwauling a foot from his ear. Maccachin yowls his protest at being jostled, shoving his paws into Victor’s lumbar spine. “Ow! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, hold on…” Victor grabs for his phone, squinting in irritation at his coach’s profile photo as the song goes on. He mashes his thumb against the screen and raises the phone to his ear.

“Yakov, it’s too early,” he whines by way of greeting. “It’s not even nine am, why—?”

“Get up, Victor,” Yakov cuts in. “You have to get down to the ice rink before you can’t even get here!”

Victor squeezes his eyes shut, then blinks them rapidly several times, trying to flog his half-awake brain into comprehending what his coach is saying. “What are you talking about,” he says. Maccachin grunts and flops over, clearly offended at Victor having a conversation instead of going back to bed. 

“Look outside, Vitya,” says Yakov. Victor sighs heavily and flings the covers back, eliciting another noise of protest from his dog that he ignores as he pads across the carpeted floor to the heavy curtains that cover the windows. It’s an established fact that Victor sleeps as late as humanly possible on any day he can, and since he doesn’t have to compete today, he’d planned on being in bed till at least eleven.

He throws the curtains open, squinting in preparation of the morning sun reflecting off the Black Sea—and stares in shock at the blizzard that greets his eyes. The city is covered in a deepening layer of white, the snow blowing so hard that it’s going sideways, hurling itself impotently against the glass. “Oh my god,” Victor breathes.

His mind flashes on the dream he’d been having before he awoke. It was so hard to remember, but he thinks—was there snow in his dream? _The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,_ whispers a voice in the back of his mind, and Victor shivers.

“Victor,” says Yakov sharply in his ear. 

Victor realizes he just missed whatever his coach was saying, and winces. “Sorry,” he says. “What the hell is going on? Sochi doesn’t get snow like this!”

“Not normally, no,” says Yakov. “Which is why they’ve already announced they’re postponing the second day of the GPF till tomorrow. The city doesn’t have the infrastructure to get the snow cleared. They’ve shut down all the roads already.”

Victor has nothing to say to this. All he can do is continue to stare, amazed, at resort-city Sochi of the sandy beaches and beautiful resorts covered in a blanket of furious snow and ice that even Moscow would groan under. The cityscape (which is of course laid out in all its finery from Victor’s window) is now virtually unrecognizable.The Black Sea, normally blue and tranquil, now froths an iron grey, choppy waves throwing themselves on the icy beach. 

Something registers then. “And you want me to go out in this?” Victor demands. “Yakov, I thought you loved me!”

“If you can make it down to the ice rink before the roads are impassable, you’ll practically have it to yourself,” Yakov says. “You could use the time to practice. And I’m sure they’ll have it clear by mid-afternoon at the latest.”

“Ugh,” says Victor. He rubs a hand across his face, disgusted. “Will you bring me breakfast?”

“Lazy,” grunts Yakov, which means yes. 

“Fine, I’ll come,” says Victor. “I’ll be there by nine. Hopefully.” He hangs up, turning to look sadly at Maccachin and his inviting bed, the covers still turned down. Maccachin raises his fluffy head and wags his tail at Victor, looking at his owner hopefully. “I’m sorry, Maccachin,” Victor sighs. “I have to go.” Maccachin whines. Victor can’t help but agree, but he gets ready to go practice anyway.

Victor supposes he should have known what kind of day he would have when he slips on snow-covered ice en route to the rink and wipes out spectacularly on the snowy sidewalk. The day goes downhill from there.

Skating practice is—fine. It’s not bad; it’s never bad, no matter how under slept Victor is or uninspired he’s feeling. But when he’s gone through the most difficult parts of his routine several times and Yakov is still chiding him on lacking ‘soulfulness,’ Victor is finding it very hard to feel enthusiastic about having dragged himself out of bed to walk half a mile through a blizzard just to get told his skating today is ‘mediocre.’

It’s not—Victor knows it’s not, and Yakov knows it’s not; Victor hasn’t failed to gold-medal in a competition in which he’s participated in a frighteningly long time. But it _feels_ mediocre, feels stale, and Victor hates feeling that way. Maybe that’s why, as he comes off the ice, he remarks a little too loudly to Yakov that “If I’m so boring, then maybe I should take some time off after this season like all the journalists keep saying I will.”

Yakov starts to respond, but there’s a clatter from down the bleachers at this. Victor turns in surprise as a scrappy teenager resembling a scarecrow with teeth all but flies down the row at him. “You’re not going anywhere till you design that routine you promised me,” Yuri spits. 

Victor blinks and stares at Yuri for several moments before he remembers the promise he made to Yuri not all that long ago. “Oh,” he says lightly. “Are you still hung up on that?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Yuri pales, eyes widening for just a split-second too long before his whole face goes black. “Don’t take other people for granted!” he snaps. “Just because you’ve won a lot of medals doesn’t mean you can treat people however you want!” 

“Yuri—“ begins Yakov, who looks alarmed at how Yuri’s voice has carried throughout the cavernous ice rink, but Yuri has already turned and stormed off again. Victor sighs inwardly. “You’re better than this, Victor,” says Yakov. He sounds disappointed, as opposed to merely surly, which is how Victor knows that he really truly fucked up.

Victor grits his teeth. “I’ll put it on my list,” he says tartly, and turns away to go change back into his parka. He’ll head back to the hotel even if he has to dig himself a tunnel through the snow to get there. Maybe he can find some consolation at the bottom of a bottle of vodka.

As it happens, he finds consolation in the form of one Arianna Sabbatini, one half of the Italian pair-skating team. She’s beautiful, with dark hair that falls to her butt and laughing brown eyes, and she greets Victor with open arms when he staggers in the front door of the hotel—which just happens to be adjacent to the hotel’s restaurant-bar combo. “Come and warm up with us, Victor,” Arianna croons, coaxing him into the dark, wood-paneled room. The fire is already stoked, filling the room with a wonderful heat, and after about an hour with Arianna, her friends, and quite a bit of red wine, Victor feels a good deal better. So much better that he invites Arianna to continue warming up with him back in his room, something she’s all too happy to take him up on. 

Like most skaters Victor has slept with (and he’s slept with a lot), Arianna has both flexibility and stamina. She’s also _loud_ , something Victor normally loves in a partner, but her cries keeps spooking Maccachin. Victor’s dog is already locked in the living room of his hotel suite, so as not to invite himself to participate in the advanced-level cuddling on the bed, but every time Arianna gets too noisy Victor hears his poodle baying anxiously through the door. He keeps having to smother his laughter into her thighs, which seems to offend her. After about thirty minutes of this, she storms out of his suite in a huff, wrapped in just her coat with her clothes clutched against her chest. 

Victor doesn’t know whether to laugh or just keep drinking—maybe both, but not before releasing his frantic dog from the living room. “Maccachin,” he sighs, as his poodle all but bowls him over in his relief at being reunited with Victor. Maccachin responds by barking happily and attempting to lick Victor’s neck clean of the lipstick Arianna left there.

He takes this turn of events as a sign that it’s better to just barricade himself in with the suite’s minibar for at least the rest of the afternoon, which he does. Maccachin is more than happy to keep Victor company with all the booze. They curl up on the bed again with a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a classic movie channel Victor finds on the hotel TV, taking a break only when Maccachin demands to be taken outside to do his doggish duty. 

(Victor has to pay extra to bring his dog to expensive hotels like the Citrus Hotel in Sochi, but in his opinion, it’s worth it. He doesn’t always subject Maccachin to the rigors of travel, but this is the Grand Prix Final, and furthermore he’d expected Sochi to stick to its temperate climate and not indulge in a freak December snowstorm.)

Movie In Bed With Dog and Wine—it’s like an impressionist painting title. It’s also the single best part of the day, which resumes its themes of Awfulness and Public Embarrassment just as soon as Victor dares to leave his suite. 

It starts out innocently enough; Victor calls for the hotel’s paid pet sitter to come take Maccachin to the indoor doggie playground housed on the ground floor of the building, and once that’s done he heads back to the restaurant and bar attached to the hotel. Normally he’d head outside, try out something new and local; Victor loves trying new food almost as much as he loves skating (though it helps that he has an iron-clad stomach). But he’s had a little too much to drink today and doesn’t want to put in more effort than he has to, so he cleans himself up and changes clothes and then simply heads downstairs.

Halfway down the front hall Victor sees a man—a boy, really—emerge from the elevator. He’s vaguely familiar, a Japanese boy with glasses who’s more than a little cute. Victor slows automatically to intercept him, but as soon as the other man spots Victor he does a swift about-face and all but launches himself back into the elevator. Victor stares in mild surprise as the doors shut, and then simply shrugs and proceeds to the hotel restaurant. 

Several of the other skaters in the GPF are already there; about a half-dozen of them are crammed into one of the larger booths against the far wall. Christophe Giacometti spots Victor and waves at him to come over, and after a moment’s hesitation at whether he wants to be social or eat alone, Victor heads over to them. 

A chorus of voices greet him as he joins the table, everyone scooting over to make room for him to sit down. “Victor,” purrs Chris, getting up to let Victor in. “I was wondering where you were!”

“Ah, just taking it easy today,” says Victor. He sinks gracefully into the open seat, comforted by the familiar faces chattering happily around the table. Aside from Christophe, there’s several other men and women in the Senior Division here. The server appears at the head of their table, taking another round of food and drink orders, and Victor lets the idle chatter flow around him.

Apparently everyone had the same idea Victor had about simply avoiding the weather—though judging by a glance outside, the snow is finally done, leaving Sochi hidden under a thick blanket of purest white. Victor wonders idly how they’re going to handle all the snow and ice; he somehow doubts they’ll be able to borrow enough snowplows on short notice to clear the kind of snowfall they’re dealing with right now. 

“So, Victor,” says Chris next to him, and something in his voice makes the hair on the back of Victor’s neck stand straight up. “What are you doing with the rest of your night?”

“Ah, probably relaxing,” says Victor. He keeps his voice studiously casual. “Yakov got me up early this morning to get in skating practice, so I’m actually pretty tired.”

Chris pouts. It’s very attractive, and he and Victor both know it. Victor bites the inside of his cheek as Chris drapes his arm around Victor’s shoulders, dropping his voice as he murmurs in Victor’s ear, “Since when are you such a stick-in-the-mud, Victor? We could have _much_ more fun together, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure we could,” says Victor easily. He plucks Chris’s arm from around his shoulder, carefully disengaging, never letting the easy smile come off his face. “Maybe some other time.”

Chris’s expression, previously warm and and inviting, now plummets a cool hundred degrees. He gives Victor the once-over, letting the ice seep into his voice as he says, “Oh, I see. I should have remembered that the great Victor Nikiforov doesn’t ever like to tread the same ground twice.”

Victor raises his eyebrows. Several of the others at the table have gone quiet, listening intently to Victor and Chris’s conversation, something Victor is much too aware of. “Ah, Chris,” he says lightly, “you should know better than to drink so much this early in the evening, mm? It goes to your head.”

“You’d know something about that, wouldn’t you?” Chris gives him a tight smile, and slides out of the booth, standing at the edge of the table to dig in his pocket for his wallet. “Arianna mentioned how much the two of you enjoyed your _wine_ earlier.” The edge he puts on the word is sharp enough to make Victor bleed; he has no doubt that Arianna told Chris all about the wine, and more.

Victor does not wince. He just gives Chris one of his trademark smiles, the Living Legend Accepting Adulation at the Podium. Chris throws some money down on the table and tips his head insolently at Victor before turning on his heel and striding away. 

There are a few whistles at the table, wide eyes and pointed stares. “Way to go, Victor,” says Karena, one of the Slovenian girls, and elbows him in the ribs. 

Victor shrugs by way of answer. “Some people have to take everything seriously,” he says. “But since we have an extra night off, I vote we enjoy ourselves.” He straightens, gesturing broadly at the table. “Who’s going to come out with me?”

Everyone cheers, shouts of encouragement instantly greeting his question. Victor brings his hands together as if in prayer and beams, and they head out into the night not twenty minutes later, Victor’s original plans to stay in forgotten. Maccachin will be fine—the pet service at the hotel is impeccable, and if Victor does not come to collect his pet at closing time for the dog park, an attendant will return him to Victor’s suite and see that he’s fed—and Victor has trouble brewing in his belly.

He’s always known, almost instinctively, how to charm people; his natural charisma is one of the things that wins him so many awards on the ice. And it’s not that he’s taken it for granted, exactly. He just sees no reason to question the fact that getting what he wants out of people has always been fairly easy. But something about the way the day has gone rankles. The callout from Yuri _and_ Yakov, the mishap with Arianna, and then Chris’s behavior at dinner—it tugs at Victor. It gets under his skin, digging in like broken glass, and no amount of vodka shots and dancing with beautiful men and women seems to erase the burn. 

Victor staggers back to his hotel room at some dead hour of the night—past three am—his nose and fingertips frozen from the unusual chill in the air. Maccachin raises his head to _boof_ disapprovingly at him from the pile of linens that is the bed, but Victor hardly notices it. He makes a beeline for the bathroom, splashing water onto his face and then drinking straight from the tap like he’s the canine in the suite. He just barely manages to strip his clothing off before crawling into bed, wrapping around his dog, and passing out.

He dreams, but does not remember it: of winter storms and raven wings, of a house in the woods with claws etched into the stairs, of a never-ending forest.

And outside, Sochi is quiet.

* * * * *

_”YOU’D MAKE A GROWN MAN CRYYYY-YYYY—_ ”

“Fcchhhhh…” 

Victor curses under his breath, first in Russian and then in English for good measure. He shoots out a hand from his pile of bed linens, finding his phone and narrowly suppressing the urge to fling it to the floor. He emerges from his king-sized domain just enough to bring the phone to his ear.

“Yakov, this is too much,” he grates out. “You can’t call me this early two days in a row—“

“How much did you have to drink last night?” demands his coach, from what is clearly the seventh level of Hell he’s dragged Victor to. “You slept till 1 pm yesterday!”

“What—“ 

“Anyway, that’s not what I called about,” says Yakov. “Get up and get down to the ice rink, or you won’t be able to make it before the snow cuts you off!”

Victor makes a noise best identified as a squawk, though he’d deny it to his dying day. “It’s snowing _again_?”

There’s silence from the other end of the phone for a moment. Then: “Vitya, you should know better than to drink so much during a competition, even if it is your day off. Get yourself together and get down here.” With that, Yakov hangs up, leaving Victor somewhere between ‘affronted’ and ‘baffled.’

He considers throwing the phone against the wall in protest, then decides it’d do him more harm than good. He’ll just go back to bed, Victor decides, rolling over and snuggling back under the covers; after all, he got lots of practice in yesterday, and he drank so much last night he really deserves to sleep off his hangover.

Except… Victor pauses. He’s really _not_ hungover. At all. He grabs up his phone from where it lays on the pillow next to him and squints at the time: 8:35 am, Friday, December 11th. He’s been asleep for maybe five hours, why does he feel so much less like death than he should?

—Wait. Victor blinks, staring at the date. It’s the 11th? But yesterday was the 11th. It snowed yesterday, too. “What the fuck,” Victor says out loud. Abruptly, he’s no longer tired.

Victor gets out of bed and goes to the huge picture windows at the edge of the bedroom. He throws back the curtains and stares uncomprehendingly at the towering wall of ice and snow that has set siege to Sochi. 

What the hell is going on?

Victor spends about five minutes having a one-sided, deeply unsettling philosophical conversation with Maccachin. His dog has no real answers for him, but his dog breath and licks to the face are reassuringly normal, reassuringly Maccachin, and it calms Victor down enough to decide that he must have just had a particularly vivid dream. Maybe the time-change is getting to him, or something. He puts it firmly out of his mind, and gets himself dressed to go down to the ice rink.

It’s very hard to ignore the sensation of ice and snow blowing in his face, especially considering that a) Sochi is not supposed to have it at all, and b) he just did it yesterday, and remembers it quite vividly. Victor especially remembers the part where he slips on the icy patch of sidewalk and wipes out hard enough to steal his breath. He even remembers the parked BMW on the curb next to where he eats shit. 

By the time Victor gets to the ice rink, the precious little confidence Maccachin gave him has been blown away in the storm. Yakov surprises him with breakfast, which Victor would appreciate more if he didn’t remember eating the exact same egg-and-sausage sandwich yesterday morning. He manages a shaky “Thank you” anyway, and does not respond to Yakov’s question about why he’s so out of sorts this morning.

Skating practice goes about as well as can be expected. Which is to say it goes poorly—something Yakov comments on, loudly and with enough curmudgeon that ice trolls in Siberia are offended. “Victor, I’ve never seen you flub that Salchow so badly, what’s gotten into you?” he demands.

“Sorry for being such a disappointment,” Victor snaps. The words fall out of his mouth before he can stop them. “Maybe I’ll do you a favor and quit skating after the GPF, then!”

He stops, shock burning through him like a brushfire, but it’s too late. Victor turns automatically towards the end of the bleachers where Yuri and Mila were both watching him skate, and sees Yuri storming down the aisle. “You’re not going anywhere till you design that routine you promised me,” Yuri spits. 

Victor bristles. “Oh, stop being such a child, Yuri!” he says, stalking off the ice. He doesn’t stay to see the shocked look on Yuri’s face, and he doesn’t respond to Yakov calling his name as he hurries to the changing room.

That was bad. That was—churlish, and ridiculous, and completely unlike him, and what is going _on?_ Victor hides in the changing room for a few minutes, overcome with a case of the shivers that has nothing to do with the blizzard raging outside. He packs up his things and leaves before his coach can decide to corner him for his poor behavior, and he does not answer his phone as he hurries out the door, heading back to the hotel. 

He’s so intent on getting back to his room and hiding that he forgets all about Arianna Sabbatini, who is already in the hotel bar, just as he remembers. She calls his name and waves at him as he staggers in from the storm. Victor must recoil in horror or something, because she blanches as though he were making the sign of the cross at her. “Sorry,” Victor manages, and flees.

He thinks of the cute Japanese boy who dove into the elevator to avoid him, and wonders vaguely if this was how he felt. 

Victor doesn’t spend anymore time than that considering the idea, though. He all but runs to his room, locking it behind him and scooping up Maccachin as his poodle bounds out of the living room to greet him. 

He gets back in bed, wishing for the first time in a long while that he was home at his apartment in St. Petersburg. He’s always loved to travel, but right now Sochi is strange and forbidding, and he doesn’t know what to think about what’s happening. He silences his phone, ignoring the unread messages from Yakov and Mila, and then snags a bottle of wine from the mini-fridge. Maccachin follows him around, clearly sensing Victor’s distress, almost knocking the wine over in his attempts to crawl into Victor’s lap once they’re back in bed.

It’s comforting, Victor thinks. Too bad he still has no idea what the hell is going on.

* * * * 

At one point late in the afternoon, Victor texts Christophe and asks him to come up to his room. It’s a bad idea, in retrospect, but he’s polished off a bottle of wine by himself and getting a little stir-crazy. Or maybe just crazy.

Chris appears ten minutes later, all but reeking of cologne and in the most ridiculously tight pants Victor has ever seen, and he figure-skates professionally. “Hello, Vitya,” he croons, when Victor opens the door.

“Hi, Chris,” says Victor, and gestures him inside. Chris barely waits for the door to be shut before he presses himself up against Victor, nuzzling Victor’s neck. Victor shivers and shoves Chris off him, a little rougher than he means to. But he’s never liked it when Chris calls him ‘Vitya,’; it’s too familiar. 

Christophe staggers backwards, cheeks pinkening, eyes wide in embarrassment and alarm. Crap. “I think you have the wrong idea,” Victor says, trying for ‘tactful’ and failing by a country mile. 

“Do I?” Christophe has recovered a little; he crosses his arms over his chest and glares at Victor. “You’re the one who texted me and asked me to come to your _hotel_ room.” He glances over at the table, where the empty wine bottle sits, and his lip curls. “And you’ve been drinking. What am I supposed to think?”

“Ah,” says Victor lamely, realizing that he can add a gold medal in ‘failing to communicate’ to his roster. “That’s—I see why you thought that. I… actually just wanted to ask you something.”

Chris raises both eyebrows at him, arms still crossed. Victor licks his lips, wondering if it’s too late to make up some bullshit excuse as to why he texted, and finally ventures, “Did it snow yesterday?”

Chris stares. “What,” he says flatly.

 _Черт побери_. “Forget it,” Victor says. He takes a deep breath. “Look, can you just—slap me?”

This time, there’s no hesitation. Chris slaps him across the face, hard enough to make Victor stagger. Victor has to put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, and he lifts the other to touch his cheek, wincing; he can already feel the mark. “Any other questions?” Chris inquires. His cheeks are still pink, but his face is as icy as the weather outside.

“Nope,” says Victor. “Thanks.” Chris turns and leaves without another word. He does not slam the door, but he doesn’t really need to. 

Fuck, Victor thinks. He starts cursing under his breath, every iteration of _shit_ and _damn_ in every language he even half-speaks. He goes and lets Maccachin out, still wincing and probing his face. 

There’s absolutely no way this is a dream, then. And no one else seems to remember the day before. That he’s encountered yet, anyway. Victor does the only thing he can think of, which is get out another bottle of wine.

* * * * *

By the time evening rolls around, Yakov apparently gets sick of Victor dodging his calls and texts and decides instead to just beat down his hotel door. It’s honestly a relief; Victor is very close to having a complete meltdown. He all but cries when Yakov bellows “OPEN THIS DOOR, VICTOR!” and slams a fist against the wood, clearly signaling his willingness to break it down if Victor fails to comply.

Victor opens the door with shaking hands and steps back. Yakov immediately pushes the door open—and then, seeing Victor’s face, he stops. The stormclouds in his face don’t vanish, but they clear a little, gnarled brows furrowing in concern. “Vitya,” he says, softer, and shuts the door behind him. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Victor says, and puts his face in his hands. He hears Yakov sigh, and then his coach puts both hands on Victor’s shoulders and guides him over to the bed. Victor shuffles across the room without any resistance, letting Yakov sit him down on the edge. He feels the mattress dip as Yakov sits down next to him, and then Maccachin’s cold nose is nuzzling at Victor’s elbow, his dog whining anxiously.

“Tell me what happened,” says Yakov quietly. 

The concern in his voice brings a knot to Victor’s throat; he swallows hard to dislodge it, finding it difficult to speak. “I feel like I’m losing my mind,” he says at length. Victor drops his hands from his face, but keeps staring at his palms, laying now in his lap. “I’m—I’m going to say it to you and you’ll think I’m losing it, too.”

“Maybe,” said Yakov. “But I won’t leave.” This is more reassuring than it has any right to be. Victor nods a little bit, and takes a deep breath before he spills his guts to Yakov.

The telling takes maybe three minutes—five tops. Yakov listens without saying a word as Victor tells him of experiencing the snowstorm not once but twice, of his duplicated fall on the ice, of his twinned skating practice. Victor tells Yakov about the afternoon with Arianna and then the dustup with Christophe at dinner, ending with the night out drinking and partying. “I was out till 3 am last night,” Victor says dully. “I should have been too miserable to even move when you called this morning, but I was _fine_. Just like I was when you woke me up yesterday morning.”

Yakov frowns. To his credit, he says nothing at all about Victor’s sexual misadventures, though Victor knows for a fact that his coach would rather not know. “I wondered if this would happen eventually,” he says. Victor’s head snaps up, eyes widening. “Overworking yourself.”

“I’m not—“ Victor begins, and then stops as Yakov holds up a hand.

“Maybe not,” says Yakov. “It could just be stress, or maybe you’re even coming down with something. But after the GPF is over, we can think about taking a break, or doing something different. For now…” He grips Victor’s shoulder, squeezing gently, and then reaches for the half-empty bottle of wine on Victor’s bedside table. “You should take the rest of the night easy, okay?”

Victor swallows hard. “Okay,” he said, because how else should he respond?

“Order something comforting for room service,” says Yakov. “Pirozhki, or stroganoff. Take a hot bath. And go to bed early. I’ll come check on you in the morning, okay?”

“Okay,” Victor says again, and manages to halfway mean it this time. He sniffles a little, wiping his hand across his face. It’s childish and he knows it. Thus, when Yakov pulls him in for a gruff hug, Victor buries his face in his coach’s shoulder and has to take a few deep breaths. 

“Just rest,” Yakov says, finally pulling back. He peers into Victor’s face as he says this, only letting go when Victor has given him a weak smile and nodded by way of understanding. “I’m going to go check on Mila and Yuri.”

“I bet Yuri’s pissed at me,” Victor mumbles. 

Yakov frowns at him. “He has every right to be, you arrogant little prick,” he grumbles, and Victor chokes out a laugh despite himself. “Now get some rest, alright? You may have tomorrow off, but I want to see you back to your normal self again.”

“Alright, Yakov,” Victor says, and sees his coach out, shutting the door behind Yakov. He leans against it and sighs, absently scratching Maccachin’s head as his dog noses at his hand. 

Yakov is right, surely. Victor just has an overactive imagination and has had way too much to drink lately. He’ll take the rest of the night off, disconnect, and start off fresh tomorrow. This decided, he does exactly as his coach said to: he turns off his phone, orders room service to come in an hour, and then runs a steaming hot bath. He spends the rest of the night cuddling with Maccachin, feeding his dog pirozhki while they watch _Pulp Fiction_ on the big 55-inch TV. 

He turns off the lights at 10, and is asleep twenty minutes later, buried under the covers. His last reassuring thought before sleep takes him is that tomorrow will be a new day.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor copes poorly. Then, he finds something better to focus on.

It was not a new day.

 _”YOU’D MAKE A GROWN MAN CRYYYY-YYYY—_ ”

Victor’s eyes fly open at the no-longer-so-hilarious ringtone he picked for Yakov. He stares dully at the ceiling for several long moments before reaching for the phone. “Yakov,” he grates out. 

“Get up, Victor,” Yakov says. “You have to get down to the ice rink before you can’t even get here!”

“Uh huh,” says Victor. He’s already scrambling out of bed, ignoring Maccachin’s grumpy whining as he makes a beeline for the picture windows. He rips back the curtain and stares at the snowstorm outside, and then just yanks the curtain closed again. “Um, you know what, I actually—drank way too much last night, so I’m going to sleep in a little longer.”

Yakov makes a disgruntled noise in Victor’s ear. “Lazy,” he says. “Try to get down here before eleven if you can.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Victor says, lying through his teeth. “Bye, Yakov.” He hangs up and chucks the phone on the bed, staring at the mess of covers. As tempting as it is to just crawl back into bed to return to sweet oblivion, the lead weight in the pit of his stomach tells him that he won’t be finding sleep again anytime soon. So. What to do. 

It’s too early in the day for despair, he thinks, which means it’s also too early to start drinking. That leaves him with just one option. 

Despite the crazy weather, there are still taxi drivers out looking for fares, and thus Victor gets to skip his morning wipe-out on the ice today. The Cathedral of Michael the Archangel looks significantly more stern and forbidding covered in a layer of snow and ice—although the palm trees just look a bit sad. Victor pays his cabby and tips well, and then heads inside, hunching his shoulders against the wind as he hurries through the front gate. 

Victor is a church-goer only perfunctorily—he attends on the occasional Sunday, and for holidays and weddings, and that’s about it. He shivers as he steps into the cathedral, the quiet and solemnity affecting him in a way a church has not in a very long time. He pauses, gazing up at the beautiful frescos adorning the high ceiling, and wonders how many men before him have come here during a crisis, how many had sought solace from the world or their families or from war. 

He wonders how many had come here hoping for salvation from their own mind.

He sits down in one of the pews, and then kneels, hands clasped and resting on the prayer book on its little shelf. Victor doesn’t know how long he stays like that, only that the words become a kind of litany inside his mind: _Please, whatever it is that I’ve done, whatever wrong I’ve committed, the harm I’ve caused, show me what it is so that I can fix it. Show me how to be free of this trap._

Finally, a few other people start trickling in—there’s a Friday morning mass, Victor realizes. He gets to his feet and hurries to the door, pulling the hood of his parka over his face and averting his eyes so as to avoid being recognized. He manages to call for another cab and get into it before anyone actually sees his face. When the cabby peers expectantly at him in the rear-view mirror and asks, “Destination?” Victor pauses.

“Downtown,” he says after a moment. “Take me to Blue Sky.” Blue Sky is one of the fancier lounges in the downtown area; it’s close to the city’s walkable promenade, and caters to a lot of international clientele. It’s a luxe, stylish affair, serving food as well as drink of the highest quality in Sochi. It’s also one of the only places that Victor thinks will serve him alcohol at eleven in the morning.

Getting there is an ordeal, since the blizzard has definitely not let up since Victor decided to find religion, but they finally arrive. Victor overpays the cabby again—a habit he picked up while vacationing in the United States—and then heads into Blue Sky.

It turns out that not only will the bartenders here serve him booze no matter what time of day it is, but they’ll let him pick the music and the TV channels, too. Two hours and four vodkas later, Victor is feeling much more relaxed, laughing happily with the daytime bartender and the small crowd of regulars lined up at the bar.

(He’s recognized almost right away, of course, but Victor has found that food service professionals are some of the most low-key individuals in the world when it comes to handling celebrities. The bartender obviously knows him, but doesn’t make a fuss about it, which Victor appreciates. He supposes that after the Olympics, the skating Grand Prix Finale isn’t that big of a deal.)

By five pm, Victor is _annihilated_. He has no idea how much alcohol he’s had, only that everyone in the bar is his very good friend and that the bartender is both handsome and funny. Blue Sky is filled with all sorts of beautiful people, actually, and Victor has just bought another round for all of his excellent new friends when the door opens and he sees a vaguely familiar young man quietly slip inside. 

The boy is Asian—Japanese, Victor thinks—wearing glasses, and looks unaccountably depressed. That won’t do, Victor thinks. He’s much too cute and Victor is having far too much fun for that to stand. Victor will just have to save him. 

“Hey there,” Victor begins, and starts to sidle towards the young man. His mystery friend freezes at the sight of him, eyes going wide as though Victor just sprouted horns and started breathing fire. Victor blinks, wondering vaguely why that too seems familiar. 

Then he’s cut off when Handsome, Funny Bartender lines up several shot glasses along the bar and then pours out what looks like whiskey, or maybe engine oil, Victor really has no idea. “To Victor!” declares the bartender, and Victor beams. He’s caught up in the cheering and the clapping on the back for a few moments, and forgets about Cute Japanese Boy.

For a little while, anyway. Ten minutes later, Victor extricates himself from the crowd at the bar and totters off to the restroom. When he emerges, it’s to find the cute mystery boy waiting outside, arms crossed and shoulders hunched. 

“Oh, I’m sorry to make you wait,” Victor says brightly. Damn, the kid is cute. Victor squints, and then the world sort of wobbles and keels to one side. The Japanese boy startles and reaches out, and Victor suddenly finds himself being propped against the wall by a cute stranger. It’s definitely not the worst thing that’s happened to him all day, he thinks. 

“Are you okay?” the boy asks. “Y-You… you seem like you’ve had a lot to drink.”

“Oh, I have!” Victor says cheerfully. “I’ve been drinking since eleven. Ah, thank you for helping me…” He really can’t resist. Victor reaches out both arms, wrapping them around the boy’s shoulders and pulling him close. The boy gasps, freezing up again, and Victor sort of melts against him, nuzzling his face against the boy’s neck. “You smell nice,” Victor tells him. 

“Uh, thanks,” says the boy weakly. “Um, let’s… let’s go back to the hotel, okay? I think we should go.”

“Ooohh, you want me to go to your hotel room? Okay!” Victor hugs his new friend for extra emphasis, and feels the boy sort of shiver beneath him, as though it were very cold. The boy murmurs something else, but it’s in a language Victor doesn’t understand. To be fair, that describes pretty much all languages at the moment, but Victor kisses the boy’s neck anyway to signal his pleasure at the state of affairs.

“Victor,” sighs the boy. He turns around, getting Victor’s arm draped over his shoulders, and then he starts to shuffle them in the direction of the front door. A few people spot them as they pass the main bar area, and Victor is very nearly diverted back to his crowd of new best friends, but the boy must have a will of iron, because he manages to resist all the invitations to come join the party and instead steers them out the door. 

Victor kind of goes in and out after that. One minute they’re standing outside on the freezing sidewalk, Victor only kept upright by the fact that he’s draped against his new friend’s side, the next they’re riding in a taxi cab, Victor laying down with his head in the boy’s lap. The boy doesn’t look that happy about this situation—or maybe it’s something else, Victor isn’t sure.

“What’s wrong?” Victor asks. The boy blinks down at him in surprise. “You look sad.”

The boy tries to smile, but doesn’t manage it very well. “I got some bad news from home today,” he says. His voice shakes a little, and he swallows, looking away.  

That’s sad. Someone so cute—so nice and thoughtful—shouldn’t be so sad. “I’m sorry,” Victor says immediately, and tries to sit up, but succeeds only at nearly pitching himself into the footwell of the cab. The boy grabs for him with another exclamation in that same language that Victor can’t speak (wow he must be so _smart!_ ) and manages to keep him from going anywhere, and Victor beams up at him in appreciation.  

The next thing Victor knows, they’re heading into the hotel together. “Why did you drink so much, anyway?” the boy is asking him. Victor’s arm is around the boy’s shoulders again, which is nice. 

“Well I went to church first,” Victor informs him, because it’s important that he knows these things. Probably. Maybe. “But I’m losing my mind.”

“Uh,” says the boy. “Well. I did ask.”

“Today is the third….today,” says Victor, because saying it now doesn’t seem nearly as scary as it was before “Today times three.” He giggles, turning and wrapping both of his arms around this sweet boy who’s looking out for him so thoughtfully. He tips his head forward so that his forehead is resting against the boy’s.

“We need to get you upstairs,” the boy says. His voice sounds strained, his face a little white, and Victor isn’t sure but maybe the boy is—scared? But why would he be scared?

“I don’t bite,” Victor tells him very seriously. Then he considers this for a moment, and adds, “Unless you want me to. Then I’m happy to bite.”

“Oh my god,” mutters the boy. A voice from behind them startles Victor, and he turns to look over his shoulder. Yakov is coming towards him with an expression that Victor would probably recognize even if he were dead. It says that Victor is in deep, deep trouble. Victor whimpers and attempts to hide behind his new friend, putting the boy between himself and Yakov and hiding his face in the boy’s hair. 

“What the hell are you doing, Victor?” Yakov demands. Victor shrinks a little bit, thinking perhaps that if he just—makes himself small enough that he’s out of sight, Yakov will just—

“He’s drunk,” says the boy apologetically. “I—found him like this, I was trying to get him upstairs—“

“He’s what? It’s not even six pm!” Yakov curses extravagantly in Russian, rubbing his hand across his face. 

“Tell him I’m not here,” Victor whispers in the boy’s ear. 

“I can hear you, you idiot,” Yakov growls. “Come on, let’s get him to his room before someone else sees this.” 

Together Yakov and the boy get Victor into the elevator and manage to prop him up against the wall. Victor drapes himself around the boy as though he were Victor’s new security object; Yakov looks as though he’s about to have a coronary right there in the elevator, but whatever, it’s his own fault for being so uptight. The boy tells Yakov about finding Victor at Blue Sky (“He’s been drinking since _when?!_ ”) and a few other things Victor can’t seem to quite follow. At one point he’s sure Yakov calls the boy ‘Yuri,’ which even Victor knows is wrong.

“That’s not his name,” Victor says loudly, as they head into his room. “Yuri’s small and angry. This boy’s sweet and he smells nice.”

The boy glances at Victor, his cheeks pinkening, and a small smile appears for the first time. “My name is Yuuri,” he says, saying it differently in a way Victor couldn’t hope to replicate. 

“Thanks for your help,” Yakov says to Yuuri, ignoring Victor utterly. “If you could just keep this to yourself—“

“Of course,” Yuuri says quickly. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yuuuuuuuuuuri,” Victor croons, from where he’s toppled over on his bed. “Why don’t you stay?” Maccachin is bouncing around the room like he’s got springs in his feet, happily licking at everyone’s hands, and for some reason Yuuri’s expression crumples at this. He stammers something at Yakov, and then hurries out of the room before Victor can ask him to stay again. “Oh, no, don’t leave!”

“You’re a disaster,” Yakov says. Victor pouts. Yakov presses multiple glasses of water on him before finally pouring him into his sleep clothes and into bed. Victor asks Yakov repeatedly about the boy who helped him home, but Yakov ignores every single question, just repeating that they can talk about it in the morning. 

Victor feels like there’s something important he’s missing, some crucial thing he’s supposed to ask Yakov—or maybe tell him—or maybe it was Yuuri he was supposed to tell something, he doesn’t know anymore. Maccachin crawls into bed next to him, licking his face, and any other thoughts about the day drift away. Victor is passed out cold by six-thirty, and while he wakens once or twice to stumble to the bathroom for relief, he’s blissfully unaware of what caused him to go so far off the rails.

For a few hours, anyway.

* * * * *

This time, when Victor wakes up to the dulcet tones of Mick Jagger, he doesn’t actually bother getting out of bed. He stares up at the ceiling, letting the phone ring until it goes to voicemail; thirty seconds later, the phone vibrates against the bedside table, informing him he has one new message.

Victor lets out a long sigh. On the plus side of things, he’s not hungover at all—quite an impressive feat, considering how smashed he spent most of yesterday. On the down side, the dread he kept at bay the day before by sheer force of alcohol consumed has decided to not even wait until breakfast to descend. He supposes he could just do the same thing as yesterday—drink until he’s forgotten all the details of harsh reality—but while Victor likes booze as much as any Russian, the idea of spending what may well be an eternity in a drunken stupor makes his heart sink. 

Outside, he can hear the howl of the wind, now that the phone isn’t ringing anymore; he doesn’t even have to get out of bed to check that the storm has returned yet again. Victor wonders where the storm came from, and why; it’s clearly connected to all this, somehow, though he couldn’t possibly say why. 

Maybe he should just kill himself, he thinks, and then winces as he realizes what he’s contemplating. Damn. It’s not even nine am, and he’s already considering just ending it all?

Victor sits up, glancing over at Maccachin, who has settled back down and is sleeping peacefully on the bed next to him. What would happen to Maccachin if Victor died? What about Yakov? Victor sighs, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Completely aside from how much it would hurt the people he cares about, Victor can’t quite reconcile the idea of ending his legacy with suicide, with an early death being his final performance. 

Okay, so—no taking the coward’s way out. Then what?

Something occurs to him. That boy he ran into at the bar—Yuri, or no, some other pronunciation that the was too drunk to grasp the specifics of. Victor has no idea what’s happening to him, has no idea _why_ , but he can’t help but want to know more about the boy. There’s just something about him that draws Victor in, something sweet and almost sad. If nothing else, he’s different than the honestly embarrassing route Victor’s taken the past ….few times through this charade. 

It’s entirely possible Victor’s just looking for a distraction, something to pin his attention on so he doesn’t slip into complete despair while he searches for an answer. In that case, though, Victor thinks he can hardly be blamed. 

The kid is vaguely familiar, so he’s probably another skater, considering his build and the fact that he’s here in the hotel and seemed to recognize Yakov. Victor feels a flicker of guilt at the fact that he had virtually no idea who the boy was, but it honestly isn’t the first time he’s failed to recognize one of his own competitors.

That probably doesn’t say anything good about him. 

Victor wrinkles his nose, and then shakes his head and gets out of bed. He returns Yakov’s call and is down at the ice rink less than thirty minutes later. This time, he’s careful to avoid the patch of sidewalk next to the BMW, and manages to make it all the way to the rink without incident. 

“Yakov, that Japanese skater,” Victor says, as practice draws to a close. “What’s his name?”

“Eh?” Yakov raises his eyebrows. “Yuuri Katsuki? He’s new, this is his first time at the Grand Prix. You don’t have to worry about him, Victor, he’s nowhere near your level.”

“Mmm,” says Victor. He crouches to untie his skates, repeating the name in his head. “I’m just curious about him, that’s all.”

“Focus on your own skating, and you don’t need to be curious,” says Yakov. It’s good advice, but Victor has no real desire to focus on himself just at the moment. It hasn’t been working out that well for him.

* * * * *

“So, you know that Japanese skater, Yuuri?”

Christophe gives Victor a Look from where he’s lounging on the bed. “Really, Victor,” he drawls. “You’re asking me about other men _now_?”

“Please,” says Victor, his smile warm and as reassuring as he can make it. He stretches out cat-like alongside Chris, pressing them together hip-to-hip. “You’re the one who’s naked in my bed, aren’t you? I’m just curious, I haven’t seen all the competition before.”

Chris smiles back, and steals a kiss, which Victor indulges for several long moments. Maccachin whines mournfully from where he’s locked in the living room, but Victor stays where he is. He’s in no hurry to let Christophe leave, since there are still another ten hours till midnight, and Victor intends to figure out exactly where the line back from eternity is—and what it takes to get across it. And he wants to see if being with another person will make any difference to how the night goes. 

“Alright,” Chris says finally. “I’ve met Yuuri. He’s a sweet kid, but really insecure. He’s not as talented as some people, but I overheard his coach saying that he’s never had a skater who works as hard as that kid does. But all the same, his score wasn’t anywhere _near_ yours, and I’ve seen his free skate program before—it’s good, but nothing special.” He gazes contemplatively at Victor for a few moments, trailing long fingers down Victor’s bare hip. “That answer your question?”

“It does,” Victor says, and kisses Chris again. “I have a new question.”

“Yeeeees?” Chris scoots a little closer, his hand sneaking around to grip Victor’s ass. Victor smirks.

“Do you have plans for the rest of the day?”

“I do now,” Chris purrs, and Victor laughs.

* * * * *

It doesn’t work.

* * * * *

Victor starts to lose track of days. It’s been at least a couple weeks now, he thinks; maybe longer. Hard to tell. He never gets quite as annihilated as that day he went to the cathedral, but he spends far more days drunk than sober, trying to numb himself from the cold press of the storm that strands him in both place and time.

He is at least learning more about his situation, though. Turns out that staying up through the night with someone else accomplishes exactly nothing—or at least, staying up all night fails to work with (so far) Christophe, JJ, Arianna, Karena _and_ her sister Kristina (though not at the same time), a woman who works at the Blue Sky improbably named Delphi, twin brothers from England named Allain and Cole, and a few people whose names Victor has actually already forgotten. None of them remember any of the previous days. 

Drunk or sober, talking or fucking against a wall, inside his hotel room or out walking by the icy water, it doesn’t seem to matter: around three am, Victor comes over so tired he can’t keep his eyes open no matter how hard he tries. He actually passes out the night he’s at the beach, right there on the sand, and somehow wakes up in the same hotel bed to the same phone call from his coach. He supposes he should be grateful he didn’t crack his head open, but at this point he’d take a head injury if it got him through to Saturday. 

He’s also found out more about Yuuri, though it’s pathetically little compared to how many times he’s asked people about the boy. Yuuri is shy and keeps to himself; Yuuri is twenty-three; Yuuri has trained in Detroit for the past 5 years while finishing his college degree at Wayne State. Celestino is his coach, and… that’s about it. Victor finds himself wondering how someone who made it all the way to the Grand Prix Finale can have managed to stay off Victor’s radar like this.

Today he’s alone, for once—or rather, he’s out walking around Sochi with Maccachin. Sochi is much too large for Victor to be able to walk across its entire breadth, but he’s familiarized himself with much of the downtown area, no matter how inhospitable the blizzard makes it. He originally started exploring in the vague hope that the key to his strange situation might be found somewhere in the city: in a church, or a restaurant, or a bookstore, perhaps. So far, no dice. 

Right now he’s walking along the block that contains Blue Sky, the lounge. Victor hasn’t repeated his disastrous performance of Man Drinking All Vodka In The Bar, but neither has he forgotten that the very first time he actually interacted with Yuuri was at Blue Sky. So after spending all day out exploring the city again, Victor is here idling on the sidewalk now that five o’clock is approaching.

Five minutes after the hour, a familiar figure comes shuffling down the sidewalk. Victor hangs back, close to the bar’s entrance, and gets out his phone, pretending to be fiddling with the messaging. Yuuri has his head down, shoulders slightly hunched as he walks, and he doesn’t seem to notice Victor as he slows outside the bar before reaching for the door.

Victor looks up. “Oh, Yuuri,” he says. Yuuri freezes. His head snaps up, and he looks back at Victor like Victor just threatened him with a gun. 

Wow, he’s skittish. “Hi!” Victor flashes a smile, trying for reassuring. “What are you doing out here?” 

“U-Uhh…” Yuuri stammers for a few moments, his anxiety a tangible thing. Maccachin comes forward, nosing at Yuuri’s pants and trying to lick his hand. Victor is relieved that his dog is with him for all of two seconds, because that’s how long it takes for Yuuri’s face to crumple like broken glass. He pets Maccachin’s head with a shaking hand, then turns too quickly and flees into the bar. Victor gets just a glimpse of his face as Yuuri turns, and is shocked to see tears flooding down his cheeks.

Victor stares after him, feeling a bit like he just wiped out on the ice yet again. “Well, crap,” he mutters. Strike one.

* * * * *

“Yuuri!”

The boy in question slows as he comes down the hall; Victor waves to him from his seat in the bar. Victor holds his breath, hoping that today will go differently. After a few moments where he’s almost sure Yuuri will just flee down the hall again, the young man seems to master himself and approaches Victor’s table. “Hi,” Yuuri says, in accented English. He’s painfully shy. 

“Hello,” says Victor, and doesn’t have to work at smiling. “Are you staying in for dinner? It’s stopped snowing, but it’s still very cold out.”

“Uh, yeah,” says Yuuri. “I mean—I was actually thinking of going out for a walk, I’ve been… stuck inside all day…”

“Oh, I see,” Victor says. “Well—you should join me before you go out! I haven’t had a chance to talk to you yet, so we should get to know each other.” He gestures at the empty seat at his table, and after a moment Yuuri pulls it out and sinks into it. 

He’s definitely cute, Victor thinks. If he didn’t know Yuuri was twenty-three, he’d have thought him younger—he’s got some baby fat to his face, and a sweetness about him that makes him seem like he’s still a teenager. He also looks like he’s been crying. Victor wonders why. 

“How are you liking Russia?” Victor inquires, when Yuuri has sat at the table for almost thirty seconds without saying anything. Victor tips his head, smiling kindly, and after a few seconds Yuuri manages a very small, shy smile back at him.

“It’s snowier than I was expecting,” Yuuri says. “I thought Sochi was supposed to be—tropical.”

“Well, normally it is,” Victor says, with a dramatic sigh. The corner of Yuuri’s mouth quirks up just a little more. “Apparently enjoying a nice, sunny day off was too much to ask, though.”

“Maybe tomorrow will be better?” Yuuri suggests. “It’s kind of nice to…to have an extra day.” He swallows hard as he says this, dropping his eyes to the table-top. 

“That’s true,” says Victor. He nudges Yuuri’s leg under the table with his foot, and is rewarded with Yuuri stiffening in his chair like he’s been jabbed with a fork. “How come I’ve never seen you around before, Yuuri?”

“Ah, well…” Yuuri bites his lip, reaching up a hand to rub distractedly at his face. “I’m kind of… I don’t go out a lot. I don’t drink much…”

“I’ve seen your skating before, though,” Victor says, which happens to be true, now—he just got on his computer and looked up as much footage of Yuuri skating as he could. Yuuri has both talent and stamina, but he’s uneven on the ice. Sometimes he seems lit up from within with emotion, like a beautiful stained-glass lamp, but other times something cramps his natural grace, freezing his limbs and strangling his movements. Victor hasn’t decided yet what it is, but he’s finding he very much wants to find out.

Yuuri’s eyes widen. “You—you have?” he stammers. Victor can’t help but smile at him.

“Of course,” he says. “We’re in the same competition, aren’t we?”

“I mean, of course we are,” Yuuri says hastily. “That’s silly of me, I didn’t mean…”

Victor laughs. “Don’t be so nervous,” he says, and Yuuri flushes. “You qualified to skate in this competition like everyone else here, so be proud of that, okay? And besides, it’s our day off.”

“Right,” says Yuuri. “You’re right.” He takes a deep breath, then lets it out and manages to give Victor another shaky smile.

The server comes then, and Victor orders another vodka tonic, while Yuuri hesitates a moment and then orders a screwdriver. Victor orders them some pirozhkis, and then asks Yuuri to tell him about training in Detroit. It takes Yuuri a little while to come out of whatever funk he’s in, but eventually he settles, enough to laugh at one of Victor’s stories about an interview gone wrong. 

He’s lovely, Victor thinks. The fact that Victor never even noticed him before now is truly ridiculous. 

“So tell me,” Victor says eventually, an hour into dinner. Yuuri is softer now, relaxed after two drinks and some food, and he’s watching Victor with those beautiful eyes that Victor is itching to see from up close. “What got you into skating, Yuuri?”

Yuuri hesitates. He drops his eyes to the table, but he’s smiling, a little pink in his cheeks from the alcohol. “It’s stupid,” he says. 

“Come on,” Victor wheedles. “Tell me! I want to know!”

“You’ll laugh,” says Yuuri. 

“I won’t,” says Victor. “I swear.”

Yuuri peeks at Victor over the tops of his glasses; Victor has to grip the edge of the table for some self-control. “You were what got me into skating,” Yuuri says. 

Victor blinks. “Me,” he says, and breaks into a smile. Yuuri ducks his head a little, but he’s still smiling too. “What, really?”

“Y-yeah,” Yuuri says. He laughs a little, and sets a hand on the table; Victor notices that it is shaking very slightly. “I saw you skate on TV when I was just a kid, and… I loved watching you. I wanted to—to move like you do. So I started skating.”

“That’s the best compliment anyone’s ever given me,” says Victor, and means it. “I’m very flattered.”

Yuuri doesn’t seem to know what to say to this, but when Victor reaches across the table to take Yuuri’s hand, he doesn’t pull away. 

“What are you doing after dinner?” Victor keeps his voice soft, intimate. He’s rewarded with a flush of color that starts in Yuuri’s face and blooms down his throat. Victor would very much like to know how far down it goes. 

Yuuri takes a slow breath. “Nothing,” he says, and turns his hand over, wrapping his fingers around Victor’s hand in kind. Victor smiles. 

He kisses Yuuri in the elevator, and Yuuri shudders, leaning into him, kissing back a little clumsily. He moves his head the wrong way and mashes his nose against Victor’s, letting out a startled squawk. Victor has to laugh, wrapping both arms around him to pull him closer and then kissing him again. Yuuri moans, a sound that makes Victor want to eat him alive.

They make it to Victor’s room, and Maccachin greets them at the door, barking happily and jumping up to lick at their hands. Yuuri freezes, making Victor stumble against him. _Oh no,_ Victor thinks, too late. “Yuuri, what’s wrong?”

“I—I’m—“ Yuuri sucks in a shaky breath, hunching in on himself, his hands going to hide his face. He tries to turn away, but Victor comes around, gently touching his arm. 

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers. “Please, what happened?”

Yuuri groans. “I’m so sorry, i-it’s so stupid—“

“It’s okay,” Victor tells him, and kisses his forehead. He corrals Maccachin into the living room, shutting the door and coming back to Yuuri, who is still standing by the entrance leaking tears. Victor leads him to the couch, where Yuuri sinks down without any resistance, still hiding his face in his hands.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Victor says again. He snags the box of tissues from the desk, and passes a few to Yuuri.

Yuuri lets out a sigh, accepting one of the tissues. “I got a call from my sister today,” he says, with difficulty. “M-My dog died. This morning.”

Victor’s stomach plummets, dropping somewhere in the vicinity of the hotel’s basement. _Oh._ “Oh, Yuuri,” he murmurs. “I’m so sorry—I didn’t know—“

“Of course you didn’t,” Yuuri says quickly. He pulls off his glasses and wipes almost angrily at his face, his eyes still averted. “S-Sorry to be so disappointing. Uh—“ He swallows hard, and then stands up. Victor can read his decision in his face, his closed-off body language, and he sighs inwardly but stands up anyway.

“Thank you for dinner,” Yuuri tells him; his voice is thick with tears. Victor leans down and kisses Yuuri’s forehead.

“You’re welcome,” he says. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay?”

Yuuri nods. Victor can see how bright his eyes are, a fresh flood of tears threatening to spill soon. “Thank you, Victor,” Yuuri manages, and then turns and slips out the door. Victor stares at the closed door for a long time before going to let Maccachin out. 

Well. At least now he knows why Yuuri looks so sad. “I’m an idiot,” Victor says out loud. 

Instead of watching a movie, Victor spends the rest of the night on his computer. He browses language-learning websites until he finds one with a video conference tutoring service, and plows through the first four lessons, practicing the basic phrases, the pronunciation. It’s hard. Japanese sounds beautiful when Yuuri speaks it, but it comes out clumsy and awkward from Victor’s mouth, lips that are used to forming Cyrillic syllables now stumbling over Nihongo diphthongs and accents. 

Victor stays up till almost 2 am, pausing only once to take Maccachin outside for a walk and bathroom break. They walk along the street, the snow still unmelted on the lawn of the hotel. He stares up at the moon, sitting white and lovely in the night sky. 

“ _Mata o ai shimashita ne,_ ” he murmurs. _We meet again._

* * * * *

Victor is lucky that Maccachin is an easygoing dog who loves people and makes friends easily, because technically the hotel does not offer a ‘babysit my dog for one night’ service. But between Victor’s wheedling and Maccachin’s friendliness, the pet sitter who runs the doggie daycare agrees to take him for the evening. It helps that Victor tips very well.

This time, when Yuuri emerges from the elevator, Victor makes a point to be coming down the stairs at just the right time to catch him. He waits to greet Yuuri till after the elevator doors are closed, so when Yuuri spots Victor and has his moment of panic, he can’t just run. 

(Victor feels only a little bad doing this; after all, he knows now what Yuuri is trying to distract himself from, and not letting him retreat to his room to cry more seems a kindness, if anything. At least, that’s what Victor tells himself.)

“Yuuri,” he calls, and flashes a warm smile when Yuuri freezes. “Ah, are you heading out? Do you want to walk with me? I’ve been cooped up all day and I was hoping to get some fresh air.”

“Uhhh—“ Yuuri flounders for a moment as Victor approaches him, then seems to give in to his fate. “I—sure, okay.”

“Wonderful!” Victor beams, and sweeps Yuuri out the front door with him. 

It would have been easy to have a redux of their night together in the hotel bar, but something stops Victor short. For one thing, it feels like cheating—well, more so than the fact that Victor gets as many instant replays of this day as he could possibly want, anyway. For another thing, he’s still so curious about Yuuri, and he wonders if perhaps trying something different will coax more out of the boy.

They go for a long walk, over an hour, shuffling through the deserted streets and through parks unrecognizable with their coats of ice and snow. It takes Yuuri about ten minutes to actually start responding to Victor’s attempts at conversation, but by the time they find a restaurant, he’s calmed down enough to smile and even laugh at some of Victor’s cornier jokes. 

The restaurant is an Italian place, picked mostly because they turned a corner and came face-to-face with an inviting view of people eating pasta through the front window. Victor pulls the chair out for Yuuri, which apparently startles Yuuri so badly that he nearly falls on his ass in his attempt to sit down. “Ah, watch out, people will accuse me of trying to sabotage the competition if you hurt yourself with me!” Victor teases.

Yuuri flushes attractively. “As if people think I’m a serious threat,” he says, but he’s smiling at the napkin folded on his plate.

“Come now,” Victor says, sterner. “If you don’t take yourself seriously, how will anyone else? You made it this far, so be proud of your skating.” Yuuri looks up at him, eyes wide and cheeks pink. Victor pats his shoulder and then sits down, giving Yuuri a moment to collect himself. 

They drink wine, instead of liquor; Victor notices that Yuuri orders Riesling, and makes a mental note. Victor had been a little worried he might be bored, repeating what was essentially the same conversation as the day before, but despite his almost crippling shyness Yuuri manages to surprise him. They talk about Detroit and St. Petersburg, Hasetsu and Moscow; Yuuri tells him about the skating rink he practiced at for years, and about his family’s hot springs inn. 

Victor does not ask Yuuri how he got into skating, no matter how tempting it is. 

The one miscalculation Victor makes is underestimating how long it will take to get back to the hotel once they’re done eating. Yuuri is that much more appealing today for whatever reason, a mixture of shyness and charisma that Victor is almost sure Yuuri doesn’t realize he even has. It’s all Victor can do to not just drag him into the nearby alley and kiss him senseless.

He thinks about calling a cab, but ultimately decides against it; there’s something rare and wonderful about walking through the cold with Yuuri, about stretching the minutes out. Yuuri keeps stealing these shy little glances at Victor, as though he can’t quite believe they’re walking next to each other. Victor catches him at it once, and Yuuri turns the color of a turnip and stammers something in Japanese. 

They make it all the way back to Victor’s room (with a brief interlude of making out in the elevator), and this time there’s no dog to come bounding up and re-break Yuuri’s heart. Instead, Victor shuts and locks the door, gets out a bottle of white wine, and goes to sit with Yuuri on the couch. It takes them maybe an hour to finish the bottle of wine; during that time Victor slowly divests Yuuri of his clothes, his glasses, and much of his remaining reserve. 

Yuuri stops them just once, his hands fluttering against Victor’s chest like a small bird. “What’s wrong?” Victor asks, softly; he takes one of Yuuri’s hands and squeezes it.

Yuuri laughs and says something in Japanese, the language lovely but only slightly less incomprehensible for all Victor’s hours of study. “I just—this isn’t how I expected my night to go,” he says after a moment, in English, and smiles helplessly at Victor. Victor answers him with another kiss, and is glad when Yuuri kisses him back.

Victor lays Yuuri out on the bed like a Christmas present he’s unwrapping, taking his time to appreciate every inch of his body. Yuuri has more of that charming baby fat around his middle, despite the lines of muscles from a season of hard training. He squirms when Victor kisses over his stretch marks, teeth grazing lightly against the sensitive skin, and Victor crawls back up his body to kiss him breathless, until Yuuri is moaning and trembling beneath him on the bed. 

On other nights, with other partners, Victor would probably give in to his own impatience and lust and hurry to the main event. But something about Yuuri—this whole situation, really—makes him want to take his time. In the back of his mind Victor knows that he’s still trapped, that he still doesn’t know why he’s stuck repeating these 24 hours over and over. But right now all he wants to focus on is Yuuri, and so he takes his time. 

He brings Yuuri to orgasm first, swallowing Yuuri’s cock greedily with two fingers twisting in Yuuri’s ass as Yuuri gasps and shudders to his climax beneath him. Victor settles next to him after, kissing him and wrapping around him, and Yuuri responds by pressing closer and returning all of his kisses with interest. When Yuuri crawls down the bed to settle himself between Victor’s thighs, Victor lets him, but still isn’t prepared for how hot the sight of his cock disappearing into Yuuri’s mouth is. Victor’s own orgasm startles him, and he barely manages to croak out a warning before it hits. 

Yuuri chokes a little but stays down anyway, swallowing as much of Victor’s seed as he can manage. Some come escapes, mixing with drool as it dribbles down Yuuri’s chin. He sits up, wiping at his messy face, his cheeks splotchy and red, then lets out a squawk as Victor hauls him up the bed to kiss him again. The taste of his own come on Yuuri’s lips is intoxicating. 

“If I keep you overnight, is your coach going to freak out?” Victor murmurs. Yuuri blinks at him from up close, a sweet and slightly tipsy smile appearing.

“No,” Yuuri says after a moment. “But I should call him to let him know I’m okay, he’s been worried about me.”

Victor’s brain is addled from his orgasm, so he asks, “Why wouldn’t you be okay?” before he realizes he already knows the answer. But it’s just as well, he supposes. It’d be strange for him to not ask.

Thankfully, Yuuri does not immediately break down into tears at the question. He settles more comfortably against Victor and then says, “I just got some bad news from home today, that’s all.”

“Mmm,” says Victor, and steals another kiss, one Yuuri gives to him happily. “I’m sorry to hear that. But, it makes me glad I’m here to distract you tonight.”

“Me too,” Yuuri says softly.

They lie together for a little while longer, until the call of nature means Victor has to get up to use the bathroom. Yuuri takes the opportunity to text his coach, and then Victor draws a bath for them. At Yuuri’s suggestion, they shower first while the bath fills, just quickly rinsing off the grime of the day before crawling into the tub to soak. Victor had every intention of doing more than just soaking, but when Yuuri falls asleep against his chest in the tub, he doesn’t quite have the heart to try anything else. 

Instead, he wakes Yuuri up just enough to towel him dry and get him dressed in an extra pair of boxers and a t-shirt. Yuuri is asleep before Victor has finished brushing his teeth and returned to the bed. Victor sits on the edge of the mattress to watch him for a moment; Yuuri’s drooling a little on the pillow, his face sweet and serene in slumber.

Victor considers calling down to have Maccachin brought up—he misses his dog—but he can’t quite bring himself to do it when he’s almost sure he knows what would happen. So instead, he gets in bed next to Yuuri and curls around him, savoring his warmth for a few minutes before he too drifts off.

* * * * *

Instead of waking up next to Yuuri, Victor wakes up to Mick Jagger and a judgmental poodle.

Maccachin barks reprovingly at him when Victor fails to answer the phone, and keeps barking until Victor gets up and takes his dog outside to use the bathroom. He’s really clingy today, Victor thinks to himself. It’s hard to tell, but Victor thinks Maccachin is stuck in the same loop Victor is—it would explain why his dog is so demanding, if he remembers spending much of the previous day being babysat by a stranger.

Victor gets ample opportunity to test his theory. Despite his urge to skip the morning practice, he ends up going to the rink far more often than not. While his body seems to reset every morning regardless of what he was doing the night before, Victor’s spent the majority of his life practicing skating every day, and even with a new intoxicating pull it’s a hard habit to break. But his afternoons are spent in a wide range of other activities: learning Japanese; exploring the city to find new places to take Yuuri for their first date; hunting through as many different avenues as he can to learn more about Yuuri Katsuki and what makes him tick.

He corners Celestino one day, ignoring how baffled Yuuri’s coach seems when Victor peppers him with questions about his student. “What brought this on?” Celestino asks. He’s sipping a coffee, the two of them at a cafe about four blocks from the Citrus Hotel. 

“Yuuri interests me,” Victor says. ‘Interest’ is perhaps too weak a word for the emotion that’s kept him pursuing Yuuri day after day for… too long now, but Victor has given up trying to get other people to remember anything. They always end up thinking he’s crazy or drunk. He sips his own tea, watching Celestino attentively. “He seems like he has a lot of potential.”

Celestino sighs, and then shrugs. “He does,” Celestino says. “He’s very talented, but he sometimes has trouble keeping faith in himself. But I believe in him. He worked hard to get here, after all, and he has incredible strength.” The man is clearly reluctant to tell a competitor anything negative about his charge, which Victor approves of, no matter how much of a roadblock it is to Victor finding out more about Yuuri.

Which isn’t to say Victor has no success in that area. Others might be reluctant to talk about him to Victor—out of what is clearly a desire to protect Yuuri, Victor finds, an urge he himself can sympathize with—but Yuuri himself is always, always vulnerable to Victor’s attention. Victor learns to finesse their initial contact, handling Yuuri with kid gloves to keep him from bolting while he’s still skittish at contact with his idol, but after that Yuuri melts for him. Every night.

It’s irresistible.

Despite it being their first time every time, Victor learns a lot about Yuuri through their evenings together. It’s never a lot at any one time, just a confession over a glass of wine, or a whispered admission into Victor’s ear while they’re catching their breath after sex. But it’s enough for Victor to file away for later, to build a mental catalog of information about the boy he’s slowly but surely falling for.

He compiles a wealth of information about Yuuri’s body, as well as his heart. Victor learns the exact places Yuuri likes to be kissed, the spot on his neck that makes him gasp, the exact right scrape of teeth on his nipple to make him shudder. Victor learns all the angles Yuuri can bend when they have sex, what angle to thrust at to make him sob Victor’s name like a prayer, what tempo to move with to make Yuuri beg him for more. He maps every inch of Yuuri’s body with his mouth and hands, memorizing every stretch mark and mole, every soft dimple and jut of bone. Victor makes it his mission to find out how many times he can make Yuuri come in one night, how much pleasure he can bring him in the few hours they have together every day. 

There are things he’s still unsure of, though: whether Yuuri is always so insecure, or whether it’s simply the blow of losing his beloved pet that makes him so fragile. He doesn’t know if Yuuri regrets him in the morning, and this almost hurts him worse. Victor knows all too well that meeting your idols often ends poorly, that your heroes almost always disappoint you.

He does not ask Yuuri if he’s disappointed in the experience. He’s too afraid of the answer.

Over time, he learns enough of the day and its people and events to build a map in his mind. Victor has, for now, given up on figuring out why he’s stuck repeating these twenty-four hours over and hour. Instead, he’s focused on the few things that change with him through the cycles of days.

Victor never seems to forget his routines, or how to skate, even if he’s technically practicing less than he does during a regular season. But the quality of his skating does change—he finds inspiration moves through him again as he glides across the ice, something Yakov comments on. “That’s the best I’ve ever seen you do that sequence,” he says gruffly, at the end of one day of practice.

Victor does not bother to tell him why. It’s not as if Yakov would believe him.

Maccachin definitely remembers each of the days, confirming Victor’s theory. His poodle greets one of the hotel’s pet sitters like an old friend whenever Victor takes his dog down to the play area now, and if Victor leaves Maccachin with the man too many days in a row, his dog responds by getting very clingy and demanding in the mornings. He also, Victor thinks, recognizes Yuuri—which is both sweet and deeply upsetting, because watching Yuuri dissolve into tears does not actually get any easier on those days when Victor gets the timing wrong and encounters Yuuri while walking Maccachin.

Victor wonders how his dog knows Yuuri when they never actually see much of each other. He supposes it might be because he can smell Yuuri on Victor, although that’s possibly just his imagination.

But the thing that makes Victor ache, makes him dare to wonder if he might just be on the right track, is the discovery that there is just one exception to Victor’s physical reset. One day, the morning after a particularly enthusiastic ‘first night’ with Yuuri, Victor pads into the bathroom to get ready to go out, and freezes at the sight of his own reflection in the mirror.

Yuuri’s nail scratches on Victor’s back and shoulders are still there. So is the hickey that Yuuri gave him, low on Victor’s throat, near his clavicle. Victor stares at the marks, tracing them with his fingers in disbelief. Then he scrambles out of the bathroom to check his phone to see if the day has changed.

It’s still the 11th; a blizzard still rages outside. The disappointment Victor feels is like a physical blow, so powerful he has to sit down on the bed to recover.

But still—a carryover, something that lasts! Victor is giddy about it all morning, right up until he realizes he can’t try to go see Yuuri tonight. If Yuuri sees the marks, he’ll think they are from someone else, and that’s the last thing Victor wants. It’s ridiculous and wonderful and _painful_. 

Victor spends all afternoon fighting the twin emotions of delight and frustration—delight that he gets to keep something of Yuuri, a physical reminder of their intimacy, and frustration at knowing that unless Victor intercepts him Yuuri will spend the night alone in his room, crying and stress-eating as his anxiety and loneliness get the better of him. Ultimately he sends an anonymous message to Celestino via the front desk, warning him his student is having a rough night, and spends his evening alone studying Japanese instead.

(He knows this is how Yuuri’s evenings go for a fact, as opposed to a guess. One cycle he waited on purpose, out of hope that Yuuri would pull himself out of his nosedive even without Victor’s help, and came up to Yuuri’s room at quarter to midnight. Victor pretended to be drunk, as an excuse to knock on the wrong door, a ruse that he regretted almost immediately. The Yuuri who answered the door was a mess, his face hot and splotchy with tears, and it was all Victor could do to keep himself from barging into the room to comfort Yuuri, common sense be damned. Instead he’d stammered something about going to the wrong room before fleeing for his own, to be eaten up with guilt for the rest of the night.)

Eventually, though, things come to a head. The day comes where Victor cannot resign himself to waiting till the evening to see Yuuri, can’t pretend to not feel as he does, as though he and Yuuri are perfect strangers.

So he doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since I have been able to find absolutely no conclusive statement of where the heck Yuuri got his degree, I had him finish it at Wayne State (which both my parents attended).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperate to break out of his endless cycle, Victor tries something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this! I got my face chewed off by finals and my beta and I had trouble making our schedules match each other.

“Yuuuuri!” 

At the sound of Victor’s voice, Yuuri’s head turns, eyes widening in surprise. He makes an appealing sight, Victor thinks, standing there in the entrance to the diner: cheeks pink from the cold wind, a dusting of snow in his hair and across his shoulders. Victor waves at him, beaming when Yuuri starts making his way down the row of tables towards Victor after just a moment of hesitation.

“Good morning,” says Victor. “I’m glad you came.”

“Uh,” says Yuuri, “Um, well, I’m actually—“

“You’re here to see your coach,” Victor says. 

Yuuri blinks. “Yeah, actually,” he says. “Did Celestino tell you to meet me here? Is he okay?”

Victor waves his hand. “He’s fine. Have a seat, I’ll explain. Sorry to surprise you like this.” He gives Yuuri a warm smile and gestures at the other side of the booth.

“It’s… fine,” Yuuri says after a moment, returning Victor’s smile with a more flustered one of his own. He sinks into the booth across from Victor, his eyes never leaving Victor’s face.

“I was the one who sent you that message, not Celestino,” Victor says, choosing his words carefully. He’s practiced this, of course, but he’s still nervous. 

Yuuri raises an eyebrow. Victor is briefly grateful that this early in the morning Yuuri tends more towards confusion and less towards crippling self-doubt. “Celestino was going to let you sleep till 9:30 or 10, so I had to get you out the door sooner.”

“What?“ Yuuri stares at him, a crease appearing between his eyebrows as he frowns at Victor. “But why would you do that?”

“You wouldn’t have answered if I had called you,” Victor says. “I tried, before. You always think it’s some kind of wrong number and let it go to voicemail, and then freak out about it the rest of the day. Sorry to mislead you.”

Yuuri is staring at him as though he’s sprouted an extra head; Victor can’t exactly blame him. Yuuri doesn’t say anything, so Victor continues.

“When your phone rings in a few seconds, answer it,” he says. “It’ll be Celestino asking you to come down to the ice rink to get some extra practice in; the GPF is cancelled today because of the blizzard. Tell him you already have other plans. I want you to come play hooky with me.”

“What? What are you talking ab—“ Yuuri breaks off as his phone goes off in his pocket. He digs it out, glancing at the name, and his face pales.

“Go on,” Victor says, nodding at him. Yuuri stares at Victor for a moment, then swipes his finger across the phone screen and holds it to his ear.

“Hi, Celestino,” Yuuri says. He continues to stares at Victor as he listens to his coach’s voice on the other end; Victor can’t hear everything Celestino’s saying, but he doesn’t have to. He already knows how it goes. “Uh—yeah, I see it, it’s pretty nuts. Practice? Um…”

Yuuri hesitates. Victor leans forward, hands gripping his mug of coffee. “Please,” he whispers. Yuuri flushes and drops his eyes.

“I—I’m sorry, I actually already…. Have other plans,” he stammers. “Y-Yeah. I’m already at breakfast. …Um. V-Victor… Nikiforov.” Yuuri’s face turns even redder as he gets this out. Victor beams. “Yeah. Uh-huh, I will. Thanks.” Yuuri hangs up, fiddling with his phone for a moment in a blatant bit of shyness. Victor nudges Yuuri under the table with his foot and Yuuri’s head jerks up, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Thanks for going along with me,” Victor says. 

Yuuri gives him this disbelieving sort of smile, like he can’t quite decide how he feels. Then the smile falters. “Is this some kind of joke?” he asks after a moment. “I mean…”

Victor shakes his head. “It’s very strange, I know,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to scare you. I’ll explain everything, but first I have to show you, or I’ll just… sound crazy.”

“It already sounds pretty crazy, just so you know,” Yuuri says. 

“I know,” says Victor. “Also, watch out.”

“What—“ Yuuri yelps as the waitress coming around the corner next to their table stumbles, the tray balanced on her left hand swaying. A bottle of hot sauce goes skittering off, hitting the lip of the tray and arching through the air, headed right for Yuuri. Victor’s hand shoots out, snatching the bottle in mid-air. 

“Close call,” Victor says, and flashes a warm smile. “Remember the snag in the linoleum there, Katya.” The waitress is staring at him in shock, her hand on her chest like she’s just had a heart attack. Victor holds out the hot sauce, and Katya the waitress takes it from him with a shaky hand. 

“Thank you,” she says faintly, before hurrying off towards the kitchen.

“Wow,” says Yuuri. “That was… amazing.”

Victor smiles wryly at him. “Don’t get the dumplings this morning,” he says. “I know you like them, but they’ll give you a stomach ache.”

“Uh,” says Yuuri. “Okay?”

“The special’s good,” says Victor. “You’ll like it a lot.”

Yuuri stares at him. All traces of his smile are gone now. “What is this? Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” says Victor. He pauses as their waitress finally appears, glancing from Victor to Yuuri. Her black hair is piled high on her head, and she’s wearing an expression that says nothing short of a four-alarm fire is going to surprise or bother her this morning. 

“Ready to order?” she asks.

“I’ll just have tea,” Yuuri says. “And, um—“ He grabs the menu, scanning it quickly and then letting out a breath. He glances across the table at Victor and then says, slowly, “I’ll have the special, please.”

“Make that two,” Victor says. “Thank you very much, Ilyana.” 

“You’re welcome,” says Ilyana. She scoops up their menus and walks off, either not noticing or not caring that Victor knows her name. Victor supposes that after having to fight off a drug-crazed husband at two in the morning, few things will faze a person. 

Neither of them speak for several seconds. Yuuri is watching Victor, his expression complicated. “What’s the special?” he asks finally.

“Syrniki,” Victor says. “Cheesy pancakes, served with cream and jam. They come with a side of sausage.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. “That does sound good.” He pauses. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

Victor lets out a sigh. This part’s always hard, no matter how he phrases it. Might as well get it over with. “I know everything about everyone in this diner,” he says. “The waitress, the patrons, everyone. Including you.”

Yuuri just stares at him for a few moments, frowning ever so slightly. “This isn’t funny,” he says.

“It’s not meant to be,” Victor says. He gestures towards the rear of the restaurant. “Watch. The busboy going into the kitchen is going to collide with our waitress coming back out. He’s going to drop that bus tub and break everything in it.” 

Yuuri twists around, craning his neck to see what Victor is talking about. “What are you talking about—“ _CRASH._ Yuuri jumps at the sound of porcelain and glass shattering, the noise deafeningly loud. Everyone in the restaurant stops talking for a moment, and in the sudden silence Yuuri and Victor can hear their waitress Ilyana cursing a blue streak in Russian. 

“How did you know that?” Yuuri hisses at him across the table. 

“I’ve lived through this day more times than I can count,” says Victor. “The same day, over and over. Doesn’t matter what I do, or what I say, or where I am. I go to bed, and in the morning I wake up and it’s December 11th all over again.”

Yuuri stares at him. “That’s insane,” he says. He sounds a little scared.

“I told you,” says Victor. Yuuri hunches his shoulders a little, and Victor sighs. “I know this is really weirding you out. I’m sorry.”

“You said you know everything about me,” Yuuri says. His voice is strained, now. “What.. What does that mean? Why are you going through this? Why am I here?”

“I only have answers for part of that,” Victor says patiently. He switches to Japanese, his accent good but not perfect. Yuuri’s eyes go wide anyway. “I know this is your first Grand Prix Final, and that you’re afraid you’re going to psych yourself out like you almost always do when you get really nervous. I know you practice all the time at home at Hasetsu Ice Castle, which is owned by your friends Takeshi and Yuuko Nishigori. I know you’ve had a crush on Yuuko for years and years, but you never told her.”

Yuuri’s face goes very pale as Victor says this, but Victor can’t quite help himself. He picks up his coffee and sips it—it’s going cold; he needs a warm-up. “You got into skating from watching me on TV,” Victor says softly. “Your bedroom at your parents’ hot springs inn is covered in posters of me. You named your dog Vicchan after me. He’s even a poodle. That’s really cute, by the way.”

“You—wh—“ Yuuri stammers a little, clutching at the edge of the table like he’s about to keel over and die of shock. “You know all that? _How_?”

“You told me,” Victor says. “Once when we went out together on this day, we had too much to drink. You wound up confessing all of this stuff to me, and then you passed out and I had to carry you to your room.” 

Yuuri covers his face with both hands. “I’m… I’m gonna go,” he mumbles, from behind his palms. 

“Please don’t go,” Victor says, his voice abruptly unsteady. He has to take a deep breath before he can continue, switching back to English when the words won’t come in Japanese. “It’s so lonely. I’ve been wanting to talk to you so much.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything for several seconds. Finally, he seems to summon the courage to peer at Victor again, lowering his hands enough to meet Victor’s eyes across the table. “Why me?” he asks, in English. His face is red, his voice a little shaky, but he manages to hold Victor’s gaze despite that. 

Victor sets his coffee down and takes a deep breath. This is the part he’s never gotten right. “I know you don’t remember any of the time we’ve spent together,” he says. “But maybe you’ll understand anyway. There’s just... something about you.” He smiles at Yuuri, and it feels shaky, hard to hold. “Is it that strange? You’ve never met me, but you care about me. And I know you don’t know me… but I’ve come to feel the same way about you.”

Yuuri doesn’t say anything, just stares at him. Victor wishes almost instantly that he could take all of those words back—it’s too much, too strange, too big to handle. Yuuri’s going to think he’s nuts after all and just head out the door. Finally, Yuuri takes a deep breath and lets it out. “How long has it been?” he asks.

Victor lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “I don’t know,” he admits. “I lost count. It’s… really hard to keep track.” 

“Does anybody else remember?” Yuuri asks. Victor shakes his head. Something in Yuuri’s face softens then. “That’s nuts,” he says. “And awful. Do you know why?”

Again, Victor shakes his head. “I must have done something really terrible, once,” he says ruefully. “I don’t know what else to think.”

“Have you ever told anyone?” Yuuri seems to be getting over his embarrassment now in favor of fascination with Victor’s plight, which Victor is grateful for. It makes it less likely that Yuuri will just freak out and bolt. 

“Once or twice, I’ve tried,” Victor says. “I tried to tell Yakov a couple times, but he always just thinks I’ve overworked myself or I’m having a break-down. I tried to see a doctor, but… it didn’t really do anything.” He smiles lopsidedly. 

Yuuri returns his smile, albeit rather incredulously. “It still sounds crazy,” he says. “But, I guess… When did you learn to speak Japanese, anyway?”

“I’ve had kind of a lot of time on my hands,” says Victor, and Yuuri laughs. It makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, his cheeks dimpling as his smile warms his face. Victor can’t help but stare, helpless to the ache in his chest. 

They eat breakfast, and despite the ridiculousness of the situation it’s somehow very normal, their conversation weaving through discussion of their competitors and what Yuuri thinks he might do during his break after the GPF. Yuuri makes happy noises at the syrniki, eating everything on his plate. He still protests when Victor tries to pay for breakfast, which Victor knows is pointless—even says so—but Yuuri insists on digging out his wallet and shoving money at Victor anyway.

Victor lets him. He has a hard time telling Yuuri no, anymore. 

They head out into the snow, Victor gripping Yuuri’s hand tightly in the cold wind. They walk back to the hotel like that, sheltered from prying eyes by the mysterious storm that’s still dumping snow on Sochi. Every time Victor glances over at Yuuri, Yuuri’s watching him—or rather, Yuuri’s staring at their joined hands, like he can’t quite believe Victor is walking with him like this. 

They make it back to the hotel, stumbling through the front doors, gasping from the wind tearing at their clothes. Victor barely has the grace to wait until they get into the elevator before he looks over and says, “Yuuri, can I kiss you?”

Yuuri turns red. He bites his lip, studying Victor for a moment, and then by way of answer he comes over and leans up, tilting his face. Victor accepts the invitation, cupping the back of Yuuri’s head and leaning down to press their lips together.

They only break away when the elevator opens, though Victor lingers close to Yuuri as they exit. Victor can’t keep the grin off his face, and Yuuri must notice, because he says, “What? What’s funny?”

“Nothing,” says Victor. “It’s—that’s the first time you’ve ever done that. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“Maybe you don’t know everything after all,” says Yuuri, and Victor laughs.

Maccachin greets them at the door to Victor’s hotel room. Yuuri laughs as he’s bowled over, petting Maccachin from his new position on the ground. Victor sucks in a breath as he abruptly remembers one thing he needs to do. “Yuuri, do me a favor,” he says.

Yuuri looks up at him, glasses askew as Maccachin head-butts him in pursuit of ear scratches. “What?”

“Turn your phone off,” Victor says. “Please? Just for today?”

“Uhhh…” Yuuri pauses in the middle of removing his glasses to clean them, squinting at Victor like he’s a hard-to-read street sign or perhaps a shady businessman offering too good a deal. “Why?” he asks, after a moment.

Victor sighs. “It’s selfish of me,” he admits, which is true. “I just want you all to myself today, that’s all.” That’s also true. He’s just omitting the other major important truth from the discussion.

But Yuuri’s face softens anyway. “Alright,” he says. Victor suffers only a brief pang of conscience as Yuuri wipes his glasses, puts them back on his face, and then gets out his phone to turn it off. _I’ll be so good to you,_ Victor thinks, a rush of love and desperation making him come over to Yuuri and pull him up from the ground. He wraps both his arms around Yuuri and kisses him. Yuuri makes a startled noise into Victor’s mouth, then slides his arms around Victor’s neck’s in kind and kisses back. 

They make love—Victor can call it that in his head, even if he’s too nervous to say it out loud. Yuuri is still clumsy and self-conscious, just as Victor remembers, but in the white light of morning with no bad news hanging over his head he’s also bolder, even a little goofy. He calls Victor names in Japanese when Victor steals his glasses, and makes honestly _embarrassing_ noises when Victor blows raspberries on his stomach and tickles his ribs, swatting him with a pillow in retaliation.

Victor loves it.

“Do you always have sex in the middle of the day?” Yuuri asks. The question comes out breathless and a little shaky, because Victor has two fingers in his ass at the time, slowly stretching him open. 

Victor lets himself be mesmerized by the sweet flush in Yuuri’s throat and chest, by the way Yuuri shudders and squirms against the bed, before finding an answer for him. “Not usually,” he says, and kisses Yuuri’s stomach for emphasis. “But I didn’t want to wait for tonight, for you.” Yuuri sighs, spreading his legs apart a little more for Victor. 

When they fall off the bed, it’s probably Victor’s fault—Yuuri wanted to try riding him, and Victor knows better than to do it right by the edge of the mattress, but he didn’t bother to reposition them. Yuuri overbalances and topples to the side, letting out a yelp as he goes down, and Victor lunges to try and save him, succeeding only in slipping off the side himself and nearly squashing Yuuri in the process. “Yuuri, are you okay?” Victor exclaims. 

Yuuri starts to answer, but at that moment the door to the living room bursts open. An over-excited Maccachin has somehow managed to free himself, and he barges into the room, barking and shoving his face at the two of them, licking Yuuri’s eyebrows enthusiastically. Yuuri starts laughing, so hard that he goes red in the face and has to roll on his side. 

After a few moments, Victor starts to laugh, too. It takes them almost ten minutes to calm down again, because Maccachin keeps barking and whining at them, somehow more hilarious than it has any right to be. By the time they get up, Yuuri’s face is damp with tears, and Victor’s sides hurt from laughing.

They while away most of the storm in Victor’s room, doing nothing in particular. Victor puts the TV on, leaving it on the channel that plays old black-and-white movies, and he and Yuuri lay in bed, cuddling and kissing, hands slowly mapping each other’s bodies. They give in to their passion a few more times—Victor is careful to make sure Maccachin doesn’t join them again, no matter how hilarious it was before. Eventually, by around two pm, the worst of the blizzard has tapered off, and Victor can hear Yuuri’s stomach growling. 

“Let’s go out for awhile,” he suggests. “We can walk Maccachin and get some food.” 

Yuuri smiles at him, his eyes a little unfocused without his glasses on. Victor knows by now that Yuuri has tried contacts, but dislikes them because of how they irritate his eyes. “Okay,” says Yuuri. “But will restaurants let us in if we have the dog with us?”

“There are a few pet-friendly places I’ve found,” Victor says. “And he’s very well-behaved when we go out in public. It’s just with people he really likes that he gets excited.” 

Yuuri’s face breaks into a grin at this. Victor can’t resist leaning in to steal one more kiss, which lasts just until Yuuri shoves him off, still grinning. “I’m hungry, you monster,” Yuuri says. “Put on some pants and let’s get going.”

“So cruel,” Victor says mournfully, and is rewarded with Yuuri shoving his foot against Victor’s butt. “Oooh, Yuuri!” Yuuri groans.

They go outside, and the whole city glitters, crystalline and cloaked in white lace. This time it’s Yuuri who takes Victor’s hand, lacing their gloved fingers together. The small gesture kindles a warmth in Victor’s chest that would sustain him through another twelve months of winter; he squeezes Yuuri’s hand back as they set out along the sidewalk. 

They walk across town, the temperature plummeting now as the sun peeks out from behind the receding clouds. The sandwich shop Victor takes them to isn’t fancy, but they are at least open, and the employees are friendly and all too happy to see Maccachin. (Victor is glad that poodles are naturally gregarious dogs, and that he does not have to explain why Maccachin greets the boy behind the counter so joyously.) Yuuri and Victor order at the counter and then go park themselves at a table by the window, where they can watch people start to tentatively explore the winter wonderland the city has become. 

“Have I told you about my mother’s katsudon?” Yuuri asks, halfway through their meal. 

“You’ve mentioned it once or twice,” Victor says. “It’s your favorite thing to eat, isn’t it?” It’s ridiculous, how much of a relief it is to be able to not act like everything Yuuri says is news to him.

“Uh huh,” says Yuuri. “It’s amazing. I know I’m biased, but she cooks for guests at our inn too. But if you ever come to Japan, you should come try some.” He flushes as he says this, eyes darting over to Victor and then skittering back down to his sandwich.

“I would love to,” Victor says. He reaches across the table, taking Yuuri’s hand and squeezing it. Yuuri lifts his eyes, his expression so pleased that it kickstarts something in Victor’s chest, stirring some part of him he’s silenced for awhile now. For just a moment, he permits himself to think about what it would be like to get to look forward to a future again—one that included Yuuri. 

Yuuri squeezes his hand back and smiles. “Good,” he says. “I’d like it too.” Victor is grateful that Maccachin chooses this moment to interrupt them by barking hopefully for scraps, because it prevents him from saying something honestly embarrassing in response. 

“So what should we do now?” Yuuri asks him, as they finish. Either he’s not thinking too hard about it, or he’s adjusting shockingly well to Victor’s bizarre story. But then, Victor is already privately of the opinion that Yuuri is much more resilient than he gives himself credit for.

“Well,” says Victor. “We could just walk around more. There’s a park near here that’ll look really pretty in all the snow.” They set off into the cold afternoon again; they don’t have that much daylight left, but Victor hardly minds. 

The park Victor has in mind is perhaps a thirty minute walk from the sandwich shop, full of snow-covered tropical trees and bushes that are virtually unrecognizable beneath the blanket of white. Victor and Yuuri aren’t the only ones out and about when they get there. Halfway across their meandering route through the drifts something cold and wet hits Victor in the back of the head, making him stumble forward with a yelp.  

“What—“ Yuuri is hit seconds later, smacked in the side of the face with a wet snowball. It knocks his glasses askew. Victor turns to see a pair of kids—ten, twelve at most—scrambling out of sight behind a grove of winter-white trees. 

Victor turns to Yuuri, feeling a grin spread across his face. “This means war,” he says very seriously. Yuuri’s eyes go wide. Victor is already bending down to scoop up some snow, mashing it into a ball, and then he hurls it back in the direction they were just attacked from before ducking behind some bushes. It smacks into one of the trees, and a loud squeal of laughter erupts from behind it. 

“Victor, are you sure—“ Yuuri breaks off as another snowball flies at them, nearly knocking his glasses off. “Hey!!” He ducks behind the bushes too, indignantly shoving his glasses back into place. 

“SCOUNDRELS!” Victor yells. He jumps up, hefting another snowball through the air, and immediately gets hit in the face. 

Yuuri bursts out laughing, Maccachin barking and bouncing excitedly around them. Victor reacts in a mature and sensible fashion, grabbing up another handful of snow and flinging it at Yuuri. Yuuri shrieks, scrambling to get to his feet and grab a handful of snow himself, and after that it’s all-out war. 

Victor loses spectacularly—he’s too busy laughing to fight back very effectively. He and Yuuri chase the kids and each other and even Maccachin back and forth across the snowy grounds, flinging snowballs willy-nilly and shrieking in outrage when they’re hit. The chase leads them to a small pond in the middle of the park, one that’s shallow enough to have frozen over in the sudden arctic weather. 

The kids streak across the ice, laughing their heads off as Maccachin chases them, barking enthusiastically at this new game. Victor doesn’t think to worry if it’ll hold their weight till after he and Yuuri are already out in the middle of it, but from there he can tell it’s frozen solid. He discovers this by careening into Yuuri, causing both of them to wipe out in a pile. Victor finds himself on his ass with Yuuri on top of him, somehow. Definitely not the worst fate he’s ever suffered.

“Hi,” he says, smiling up at his lover. 

Yuuri peers down at him, glasses hanging off his face. “Hi, you,” he says, and then smushes snow into Victor’s neck. 

Victor shrieks, immediately wrapping his arms around Yuuri, shoving his frozen fingertips under the other boy’s jacket, digging for his sensitive stomach. Yuuri howls like he’s being tortured, trying to wriggle away from Victor, both of them slipping and scrambling idiotically around on the ice like drunken seals. 

The snowball fight is abandoned in favor of skating around on the frozen lake—if the uneven lurching Victor and Yuuri do qualifies as ‘skating.’ The ice isn’t frozen very smoothly, and they don’t have skates, but the surface is still slick enough for them to go slipping and sliding from one end of the pond to the other. 

Victor does his best to re-create one of his routines, but he’s about as elegant as a walrus without his skates. He sends Yuuri into fits of hysterics when he attempts a spin and sends himself into one of the snow banks at one of the pond instead. Yuuri takes a turn, zig-zagging awkwardly across the ice like a drunk hockey player doing interpretive dance, and then promptly wipes out when Maccachin comes skittering over the ice towards him and bowls into Yuuri’s legs. 

It’s the most fun Victor’s ever had with someone in his entire life. He should really have known he would still find a way to fuck it up, despite every opportunity to get it right. 

Finally, they’re exhausted and soaked to the bone, and darkness is creeping across the city. “Let’s head back to the hotel,” Victor says, pulling Yuuri to his feet from another snow pile. He kisses Yuuri’s frozen lips, smiling when Yuuri leans into him, and then they head back to the main road together to hail a cab. 

It takes a few tries before they get a cabbie willing to take Maccachin too, but they still make it back to the hotel sooner than if they had walked. By the time they make it into the front doors of the hotel, Victor and Yuuri are both shivering from the dropping temperature and their damp clothes. “I’ll start the water for a bath,” Victor says, as they get inside. 

“O-Okay,” Yuuri says. His teeth are chattering even as he starts stripping out of his damp clothes. Now that they’re inside again, it’s a little better, but Victor is still chilled to his core from their fun outside. 

He hums to himself as he moves around the bathroom, thinking about what else they can do. He’s cautiously hoping that with Yuuri here, with Yuuri aware of the loop, maybe—maybe the two of them can find a way to stay awake, to break the cycle. Victor shuts his eyes and sends up a little prayer, the sweet daydream from earlier coming back to him now: waking up tomorrow with Yuuri in his bed. Watching Yuuri skate his free program. Taking Yuuri out on a date somewhere that isn’t Sochi. 

The happy little diversion lasts just until Victor emerges back into the bedroom, wrapped in one of the fluffy bathrobes the hotel provides, and sees Yuuri sitting on the edge of the bed. He’s still half-dressed, his wet shirt on the floor and pants unbuttoned but still on. Yuuri’s gone very still and very pale, his phone pressed against his ear. 

Victor’s heart drops into his stomach. “Yuuri,” he begins, and finds his throat has closed tight. 

Yuuri’s eyes flick up to him but don’t really see him, not yet. After a few more moments, he slowly lowers the phone to his lap. “My sister left me a voicemail,” he says, and swallows. “My—our dog—Vicchan…”

Victor is crossing the room to him as Yuuri trails off, but Yuuri stiffens before Victor can reach him. “Wait,” he croaks, and his eyes go wide. “You—is that why you asked me to turn my phone off? You _knew_?”

Shit, shit, shit shit shit. “Yuuri, please,” Victor says, reaching for Yuuri, and winces as Yuuri jerks away from Victor’s touch.

“You knew the whole time?” Yuuri’s voice skitters dangerously up an octave, brittle and accusatory. “Wh—why would do that to me? How could you do that?” His voice breaks, and he drops the phone, hunching in on himself on the bed. The way he’s staring at Victor is _awful_ , all the relaxation and sweetness gone like water down a drain. Tears have already started trickling down his cheeks, his lovely brown eyes glassy and too bright. 

“Because—because—!” Victor swallows, panic making it hard for him to think of the right words. He’s never been good at dealing with other people’s tears; they make him feel helpless, useless. “You’re devastated, every time! You’re so sad, and—and you beat yourself up, and I just—“ 

He drags his hand through his hair, looking helplessly at Yuuri. “It’s so hard to see you be sad every day,” he says finally. “I just wanted you to spend the day being happy, for once.”

Yuuri chokes on a sob. He grabs up a pillow and hits Victor with it, hard. Victor winces but does not move. “Sorry my bad news is _inconvenient_ for you,” he snaps, in Japanese, and then breaks down. He clutches the pillow against his chest and buries his face in it, muffling his sobs, his shoulders shaking. 

“Yuuri,” Victor whispers, wretched. He stares at Yuuri for a few moments, then—because he can’t do anything else—he scoots closer, carefully wrapping his arms around Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri hunches in on himself a little more before giving in, letting Victor pull him into his lap. He cries hard, ugly hiccoughing sobs that shake his slender frame and hurt Victor much more than the half-hearted shoves Yuuri gives him in the ribs a few times. 

It takes another ten minutes for Yuuri to calm down, during which Victor only leaves his side long enough to make sure he hasn’t accidentally flooded the bathroom. Eventually, Yuuri lets Victor get him out of his soaked clothes and into the hot bath. Victor is more grateful than he can put into words that Yuuri lets Victor wash his hair and back, and then curls up with his back to Victor’s chest, Victor’s arms settled around him. 

He doesn’t say anything, though, and Victor knows he’s still in trouble. Most of the time, that kind of thing doesn’t really bother him. This time, though, it definitely, definitely does. “Yuuri,” he whispers. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have misled you like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Yuuri says, and sighs. He sinks a little lower in the water. “How can you possibly be stuck in whatever… loop… thing… you’re in long enough to learn Japanese, and not already have figured that out?”

“I hate that I can’t make it better,” Victor says quietly. “I just want to protect you, and I can’t fix it. It always goes back to the start of the day and nothing I ever do sticks.”

“I don’t want you to protect me,” Yuuri says. “I know you can’t f-fix that kind of thing. I just—it’s great and all that you get a free reset, a do-over—“

“It’s not great,” Victor says before he can stop himself. “It’s awful—“

“Shut up,” Yuuri snaps, and Victor subsides. Yuuri bites his lip, dropping his eyes; after a moment a small hand finds one of Victor’s and laces their fingers together. Victor squeezes gently, and is grateful when Yuuri squeezes back.

“You know what’s coming,” Yuuri says, when he collects himself enough to continue. “I don’t. And you, you asked me to… to trust you, and go with you today, and you say all this stuff about how much you care about me, and—it’s amazing. I loved it.” Yuuri sniffles a little. “And then I find out you knew this was going to happen, and instead of—trying to make it easier for me, you just thought you’d avoid it. Because I’m going to wake up tomorrow and still be dealing with this, you know?”

Victor says nothing to this, something ugly and shameful creeping through him, stealing his words and burning a hole in his chest. Now that the idea is in his head, he can’t unsee it: of course Yuuri would think that Victor avoided Mari’s phone call because it was inconvenient for him to deal with. And is he actually even wrong? The thought makes him sick to his stomach. 

Yuuri sighs, turning slightly and half-heartedly burrowing against Victor’s chest. Victor responds instinctively, wrapping his arms more tightly around Yuuri, as though afraid he’ll change his mind about everything and try to get away. “If you woke up tomorrow and it was Saturday, would you still want to be with me?” he asks. His voice is barely above a whisper.

Victor stiffens. “Of course I would,” he says. Something has caught in his voice, a sharp and painful something, lodged in his throat.

Yuuri shakes his head a little. “Today just seemed like some kind of dream,” he says. “The man I’ve looked up to for almost my entire life, wanting to spend the day with _me_. But maybe it was just convenient.” He sounds tired; Victor sighs inwardly, because he’s very familiar with this side of Yuuri—this boy whose anxiety and sadness taints his entire view of himself. 

Victor has to take a deep breath. He wraps himself around Yuuri even more tightly, kissing across Yuuri’s shoulders and up his throat. Yuuri makes a wet noise, ducking his face; the gesture hurts something in Victor’s chest. “I let you down today,” he murmurs into Yuuri’s ear. “But I was just being—a coward. I never meant to make you feel inadequate. I’m the one stuck repeating this until I get it right, not you. You’ve been just fine all along.” 

Yuuri stirs at this, lifting his head to peer up at Victor. His face is still splotchy, whether from tears or the hot bath it’s difficult to say. Victor tilts his face just a little, watching Yuuri’s expression. After a moment, Yuuri leans up and kisses him, softening in his arms. 

They stay in the tub until it starts to cool, and then Victor climbs out, retrieving towels and robes for them so that Yuuri doesn’t catch more of a chill than he might have already staying in his wet clothes for too long. Victor is honestly afraid that Yuuri will have decided that he’s done putting up with Victor and retreat to his own room for the night, but even with Maccachin nosing at their hips, Yuuri seems content to let Victor lead him to the bed and to curl up in the thick nest of blankets and sheets. 

Victor orders them room service—stir-fry with lots of veggies and chicken, since nothing heavier sounds remotely appealing—and then crawls into bed next to Yuuri. Yuuri immediately settles against Victor’s side, letting Victor drape an arm around Yuuri’s shoulders. 

“I need to let Celestino know I won’t be in my room in the morning,” Yuuri says absently. 

Victor catches his breath. “You still want to stay the night?” he asks. He can’t quite keep the tremble out of his voice.

Yuuri lifts his head, smiling faintly. “I’m still mad at you,” he says. “But how else are we going to break your curse?” Victor can’t help the smile that breaks across his face as Yuuri’s expression softens more than Victor could possibly have hoped for. 

Staying up proves harder than Victor anticipated, though, no matter how wonderful his company is. Yuuri asks Victor if he wants to have sex again—he has to switch to Japanese to do it, his face reddening adorably as he tries to be subtle about the request—but Victor has to admit defeat. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he says, emphasizing it with a squeeze to Yuuri’s honestly _incredible_ ass. “But you and I both wind up passing out really easily after sex.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri. He pouts, lower lip jutting out. Victor can’t help his laugh, but he doesn’t try to dodge when Yuuri elbows him in the ribs in vengeance either. 

They order coffee after dinner, and retreat to the living room, the bed proving too warm and inviting after a long day spent exerting themselves outdoors. Victor unearths a pack of cards from his suitcase and goes about teaching Yuuri a cutthroat version of Durak where the trump suit is always diamonds. Yuuri rewards him by completely _destroying_ him in their first two games. 

Eventually Victor resorts to dirty tactics, like stealing Yuuri’s glasses and trying to coax Maccachin into knocking over their table. This not only doesn’t win him any games, it results in Yuuri tackling him onto his side on the couch and tickling him until Victor screeches for mercy, laughing so hard he has tears leaking from his eyes.

Despite Victor’s best efforts, Yuuri dips a few more times as the hours slip away. Victor catches him staring off into space, and he has to coax him back to the moment with a soft kiss (and once with an ice cube down the back of his shirt). At one point Yuuri tears up right in the middle of telling Victor a story about skating practice back in Hasetsu, and Victor just gathers him into his lap and lets him.

After that, they watch videos—first just streaming TV episodes, and then resorting to stupid videos on Youtube. Yuuri starts to nod off against Victor’s shoulder around 1:30 in the morning. Victor shuts the computer and coaxes Yuuri to his feet, leading him back to the bedroom and settling him in bed. 

“How much longer before you know if we did it?” Yuuri’s voice is soft, thick with sleep. He blinks up at Victor from the pillow, his hair in disarray, glasses folded safely on the bedside table. He’s beautiful, Victor thinks.

“I think three or four,” Victor says. “I’ve stayed up that late before, but never past three.”

“Ugh,” says Yuuri. “Gross.”

“You can go to sleep,” Victor says softly. “I’ll stay up. It’s okay.” 

Yuuri sighs and shoves himself upright again, propping himself up against Victor with his back against the headboard of the bed. “Tell me about training with Yakov,” Yuuri says. He leans his head against Victor’s shoulder.

Victor smiles, stealing one of Yuuri’s hands and lacing their fingers together. “He’s a cranky old man,” Victor says. “Like working with a bear that’s been woken too early from winter hibernation.” He keeps his voice quiet as he tells Yuuri about how he met Yakov, how he got started skating when he was just seven years old—how jubilant he was when his parents released him into Yakov’s care, and how Victor went willingly, never to look back. 

Yuuri smiles, rubbing his thumb lightly across the back of Victor’s hand. Victor keeps talking until  after Yuuri’s eyes have drifted shut, his grip on Victor’s hand going slack. He looks at Yuuri’s sleeping face, lit now just by the one warm lamp still on in Victor’s room. Victor takes a deep breath, and lets it out slow.

“You are the kindest, sweetest, most genuine person I have ever met,” he whispers. “No one has ever made me feel the way you do. You make me feel inspired again, you make me—want to be better than I am. I don't deserve someone like you. But if I ever could, I swear I would love you for the rest of my life.”

Yuuri stirs a little, shifting against Victor’s side. “Did you say something?” he murmurs.

Victor leans over and kisses Yuuri’s forehead. “Goodnight,” he says.

* * * * *

_”YOU’D MAKE A GROWN MAN CRYYYY-YYYY—_ ”

Victor squeezes his eyes shut. The music cuts through his slumber like a knife, and after a few moments of useless resistance he rolls to the side, grabbing for the phone. He mashes ‘end call’ and then hurls the phone at the floor with all his might. It bounces, skittering under the coffee table on the other side of the room.

Victor flops back against the bed, covering his face with his hands. He doesn’t have to look over to see that the bed next to him contains only Maccachin. A lump rises in his throat, stubbornly remaining no matter how hard he swallows against it. 

The tears that come are bitter, and burn like straight gin. Victor cries harder than he’s let himself in fifteen years, the air dragging in and out of his lungs in great sharp shards, leaving him in bloody tatters. Maccachin crawls closer, licking anxiously at his hands and cheek, and eventually Victor lets his hands fall, submits to his dog’s whining and nuzzling. Even then the tears still come, leaking out of him as though something vital inside of him has punctured and heart’s blood is now draining out of him in one long go. 

He cries until he has nothing left, and then he lays in bed with Maccachin for almost an hour, burying his face in his dog’s soft fur. Victor thinks distantly that if it were not for his dog, he would be very badly off. Maccachin nuzzles him, licking his hands and face and hair. His whiskers tickle Victor’s cheek, and Victor chokes out a laugh despite himself.

Finally, he sits up, letting out a long ragged sigh. Outside, he can hear the wind howling; the storm has returned yet again. 

“Okay,” says Victor, and takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Syrniki is a [real Russian food](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syrniki), and it sounds fucking delicious. Now I want some. Especially since it's like 2 degrees here right now, sigh.  
> Likewise, I did not make up [Durak](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Durak), and although I have played it before I couldn't teach it to you to save my life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Victor decides to take a different approach to his cycle of repeating days. And this time, something changes.

After that day, something shifts.

More accurately, something in Victor shifts—a fundamental sea-change of his person—and Yuuri becomes the center of gravity around which Victor orbits.

He does not spend every day solely in pursuit of Yuuri, because he’s come to understand that he simply can’t—not if wants to be worthy of the love and respect Yuuri has for him, to fulfill his promise to do better. But no matter where he is or what he’s doing, Yuuri is his fixed point, his North Star, burning bright and holding him true to his path. And no matter where he is in Sochi, Victor can feel the weight of Yuuri’s pull on him. 

The first change he makes is ensuring that Yuuri never spends the afternoon alone again. Usually Victor tries to be there for him—to drag Yuuri out of his room no later than noon, earlier if possible, and to just be there with him when he gets the fateful phone call. Other times—like when he’s out and about trying to locate as many people within walking radius of the hotel who are stranded because of the storm—he has to settle for sending other people to Yuuri’s room, or contriving for Yuuri to be spending practice time at the rink with Celestino when the phone call comes. 

But no matter what else he’s doing, what task he’s occupied with, there’s never a moment in the day where Victor doesn’t want to drop what he’s doing and give in to that pull, to go to Yuuri and make himself known, to wrap Yuuri up in all the love Victor has to give.

It’s especially hard, knowing that the day Victor is doomed to repeat over and over is arguably one of the worst days of Yuuri’s life. Victor by now knows the exact minute of the day when Yuuri’s sister Mari calls from Japan to give him the news about Vicchan’s death: 1:23 pm local time, which is just shy of 7:30 in the evening in Japan. If he’s not with Yuuri himself, Victor finds himself glancing nervously out the window or up at the sky wherever he is around that time, as though the very heavens will darken to reflect the grief and self-doubt that descends on Yuuri like a cloud.

And why not? Victor has come to understand that the storm that strands him here in Sochi is an emotional state as much as it is a physical one, a psychological ivory tower in which he’s somehow locked away. Why wouldn’t it do the same for Yuuri?

* * * * *

The thing is, once Victor starts looking for it, he can’t unsee the staggering number of people who need help. Some of them are obvious—Yuri Plisetsky may act like an unlovable little punk, but Victor’s more than able to read how desperate for affection and support the kid is. And Christophe may act like he doesn’t care, but Victor didn’t need a curse that traps him repeating the same day over and over to guess how upset Chris was after Victor broke things off. Christophe feels things deeply; it’s one of the things that makes him such an excellent skater.

But it’s not just Victor’s competitors—his friends—who could use some help. The city is full of strangers who need a hand, or more than a hand. Some of them are people afflicted by the strange storm, and these people Victor takes very personally. After all, he’s the reason the blizzard has swamped the city, and the reason it’s remained locked in ice and snow for as long as it has.

(He does not like to think about exactly how long it’s been. If he ever gets out of this, Victor thinks, he’ll never be sad about getting older again. ‘Forever Young’ is not the blessing it was made out to be, that’s for damn sure. And while he goes to skating practice every morning, and still relishes his time on the ice, it’s no longer the be-all and end-all of his world.)

And the more people Victor finds who are hurting, the more Victor finds he _wants_ to help. He’s spent so much of his life with his attention focused inward that turning his gaze outward instead is like discovering a set of muscles he never quite learned how to use. 

The realization of the lack embarrasses him, but only for a little while. After all, Victor knows he has as much time as he needs to get it right, so he’s going to it as right as he possibly can.

He wishes he could go back and undo some of the callous things he’d done in the past, the way he’s taken people’s attention and support and affection for granted, but he can’t. He can only do better going forward. 

So that’s what he does.

* * * * *

_”YOU’D MAKE A GROWN MAN CRYYYY-YYYY—_ ”

Victor’s eyes snap open, and he reaches for the phone. “Good morning, Yakov,” he manages. His voice is still a little slurred from sleep, but he means it. “Why so early?”

“Get up, Victor,” Yakov says. “You have to get down to the ice rink before you can’t even get here!”

“Ah,” says Victor, and stretches. “Right. Okay, I’ll be right there. See you soon!” He hangs up before Yakov can even tell him about the snowstorm outside, then opens a new text message and starts adding recipients to it.

 _Good morning! GPF cancelled today because of freak blizzard, but the rink is open! Come down and join me for practice, I’ll buy lunch when we’re done! XO Victor_

Victor sends it off, then tosses the phone on the bed and heads into the bathroom. He has to shower and get ready quickly so he can go drag the few slow starters out of bed, to give everyone time to get down to the rink before the storm really gets going. He can hear the ping of his phone as messages return, but he lets them be for now. 

“Don’t worry, Mac-ca-chin,” Victor says in a sing-song, letting his voice carry out of the shower. His poodle whines in response to his name, sitting on the tile floor of the bathroom wagging his tail. “You’re coming with me today, no being stuck in the room!” Maccachin barks.

First stop on the way out is Christophe’s room. Christophe would sleep through a tornado if he didn’t have somewhere to be—Victor has never met anyone so capable of turning their inner alarm on and off. Victor knocks loudly at the door, repeating the knock three times until the door yanks open and a rumpled-looking Chris appears. 

“What,” Chris snaps, and then stops when he sees who it is. “Victor? You’re up early.”

“I am,” Victor says with a smile. “Sorry to wake you, but we’re heading down to the rink to practice. There’s a blizzard, so the competition is cancelled today, but the rink is open. Yakov called me.”

“Oh,” says Chris faintly. He squints at Victor for a moment, then rallies. “Alright, fine. I’ll be down in a bit.” 

“Okay!” says Victor. Maccachin comes forward, licking Chris’s hand, and Chris’s expression softens a little. “See you soon!”

After that they head to the fourth floor to rouse Arianna Sabbatini, then just down the hall to wake up Karena and her sister Christine. Everyone has more or less the same reaction to him knocking on their door before 9 am, but no one turns him down when he invites them to come practice. That’s one thing Victor has always loved about this level of competition: everyone is just as dedicated as he is. 

His last stop is the most important, which is why he saved it. Victor knocks on Yuuri’s door, humming softly to himself. When the door cracks and Yuuri peers out at him, Victor beams.

“Good morning, Yuuri!” he says brightly. “Did you get my text message? I was hoping you would walk down to the rink with me.”

“Uh,” says Yuuri. He flushes, blinking at Victor as though he’s not quite sure he believes his own eyes. “Yeah, I did. Um—“ Maccachin interrupts, shoving his face in the crack in the door and whining excitedly as he tries to coax some pets out of Yuuri.

Yuuri melts a little, a smile breaking out on his face. “Ah, hi there,” he says, and scratches behind Maccachin’s ears, earning some enthusiastic tail wags. “Alright, yeah, hold on. Let me just get my coat, I’ll come.” 

“Wonderful!” Victor smiles as Maccachin forces his way into Yuuri’s hotel room, following after him. “Ah, sorry, Maccachin must really like you.”

“I’m a sucker for dogs,” Yuuri says. He sneaks a peek at Victor as he emerges, zipping up his coat. Victor is grateful that when he surprises Yuuri this early, it doesn’t give his lover time to get too nervous. He’s just not awake enough yet. 

(Victor permits himself to call Yuuri that inside his own head, although it’s not a term he’s ever said out loud, no matter how many times he sleeps with Yuuri. He just can’t help himself, even if it’s not strictly true till closer to the end of the day.)

“You should text your coach,” Victor suggests, as they head to the elevator. “He’d probably want to come down, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, good idea.” Yuuri fumbles his phone out of his pocket to send a message, and then frowns. He glances at Victor. “How’d you know where my room was?”

“I couldn’t sleep the first night we were here, so I went down to bother the night clerk,” Victor says. “I thought it’d be useful to know everyone’s room numbers.”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, nonplussed. 

They take the elevator down, Maccachin leaning heavily against Yuuri’s leg and nosing his hand for scratches. Victor is glad to have his dog along; he always puts Yuuri more at ease in the mornings, makes breaking the ice a little easier. 

Yuuri slows as they approach the front doors of the hotel, eyes widening at the sight of the blizzard outside. “Wow,” he says. “I didn’t think Sochi got this kind of weather.”

“It usually doesn’t,” Victor says, grinning at him. “We’re just lucky, I guess. Better button up!”

They brace themselves and head out into the storm. At the end of the block, Yuuri starts to cross the street, towards the ice rink, but Victor reaches out and grabs his wrist. “This way,” he says, nodding to their right. “There’s a spot around the corner I like to take Maccachin by.”

“Uh, okay,” says Yuuri. He hunches his shoulders as they turn their faces into the wind. “I bet we’re the only ones crazy enough to be out in this…”

“I wouldn’t make that bet if I were you, you underestimate how stubborn Russians are,” Victor replies. “Hey, watch out, it’s icy up here.”

“What, where—“ Yuuri breaks off as he very nearly slips on a patch of ice hidden beneath the snow, only staying upright because of Victor reaching out to steady him. “Whoa!” 

Victor smiles at him; after a moment, Yuuri smiles back, a little flustered. “Come on,” says Victor. “Konstantin needs a hand.”

“Who’s Konstantin?” Yuuri starts to ask. But a noise up ahead makes him break off—Victor hurries forward as a large white sedan about 200 meters further down the road loses its grip in the snow and sails majestically up and over the curb. It plows right into a huge snow bank and stops. Victor and Yuuri hurry up to the stuck vehicle, just in time to watch its owner force the driver-side door open and spill out onto the sidewalk. 

“Are you okay?” Yuuri exclaims. He makes his way around the car, catching the shaken-looking man before he can overbalance and fall over into the snow. 

“My head hurts,” says Konstantin, though he hasn’t bothered to introduce himself today. There’s a smear of bright red at his temple; Victor is already digging out the handkerchief he grabbed before leaving his hotel room. Maccachin sits right next to Konstantin, leaning against him and nuzzling his hip supportively. Victor brings his dog more often than not these days, and Maccachin knows their various routines as well as his owner does, now. 

“Call an ambulance,” Victor says, helping to prop Konstantin up. He tells Yuuri the number, and then the two of them get the shaken man sitting on a blanket taken from the back seat of his car, another draped over Konstantin’s shoulders. Victor puts pressure on the gash in Konstantin’s forehead till the ambulance arrives, which luckily only takes about twenty minutes. 

Yuuri lets out a long breath as he and Victor back away, letting emergency services bundle Konstantin into the back of the ambulance. “We should get going,” Victor murmurs. “If we stay till the police get here, we’ll be stuck for ages.”

“Oh, yeah,” says Yuuri. “Hey, wait a second, didn’t you—“

“Come on,” Victor says, and grabs Yuuri’s hand to hustle him away. 

They’re a little late to the ice rink, but when Yuuri starts chattering to his coach about the accident they witnessed on the way in, nobody seems to mind. Victor gives Yakov a few minutes to fuss and growl at him, patiently enduring his coach’s thinly-veiled concern until Yakov is satisfied his star student hasn’t managed to injure himself. 

“What are all these other skaters doing here, anyway?” Yakov adds, as Victor straps on his skates.

“I called them,” Victor says. He smiles at Yakov’s expression, like a thundercloud that’s just been slapped. “I thought it would be nice.” With that, he heads out onto the ice. 

With almost a dozen skaters on the ice, practice is a little more challenging, but they make it work. Someone—Victor strongly suspects it’s Mila, but he hasn’t actually verified it yet—puts on a playlist from their phone. It’s full of the best kind of trashy pop, the kind that makes Victor wish there were mimosas to be had. 

When a Beyonce song comes on while Christophe and Victor are taking a brief break to let a couple other skaters take a turn, Victor can’t resist. He wiggles his eyebrows at Chris, and as though on cue, the two of them break into an impromptu dance right there on the ice—Victor can’t really compete with the kind of pole-dancer vibe Chris manages, but he doesn’t let it stop him. It earns them laughter and a few cat-calls, but more importantly it makes everyone smile and loosen up a bit. 

“Alright!” Victor claps his hands and does a slow rotation on his skates, looking around at everyone. “Let’s have a great practice, okay? I’m so lucky to get to compete with all of you, so let’s do our best!” A chorus of cheers greets this proclamation, and Victor beams. He catches Yuuri watching him from the far side of the ice, and Victor waves a hand at him; Yuuri reddens, but smiles and waves back anyway. Good, Victor thinks. The boy can use every bit of encouragement he can get.

Halfway through the morning, Victor finishes another run-through of the second half of his free program. He skates across the ice to where Yuri is paused, talking to Yakov. Yuri breaks off as Victor skates up, eyeing him uncertainly. 

“Yuri, I’ve been working on the routine I promised you,” Victor says. “Do you want to see a run-through now? I haven’t picked music yet, but I wanted to see what you thought.” 

Yuri’s eyes widen, while Yakov frowns. “Since when have you been working on a routine?” Yakov demands. Victor ignores him, for now. 

“Do it,” Yuri says. “I wanna see.” Victor beams at him, and skates a little way back out onto the rink. 

It’s true that he’s not sure about the music yet—there’s a couple options he’s considering, but in reality he’s torn between two different versions of this routine, with two different pieces of music to match. He’s been leaning towards the ‘sweeter’ of the two for Yuri—the one that makes him think of being on his knees in the Cathedral of Michael the Archangel, praying for answers, to find peace in his endless repetition. Victor’s practiced it enough by now that he can perform it without music, and he moves swiftly through the routine and its twisting, aching dance.

He’s concentrating hard—he wants Yuri to see the spirit of the thing, to show his fellow student that Victor has been taking the promise he made seriously. By the time he’s risen from the last spin and folded his arms into his chest, all Victor is really aware of is his own heartbeat pounding steady in his chest.

He catches his breath and looks up—Yuri’s eyes are wide, his expression happier than Victor’s almost ever seen it. Predictably, Yakov is still frowning. “That’s too difficult for Yuri,” he says. “He can’t do a quad yet.”

“He’ll be able to soon,” Victor says. “And I made it difficult because I believe Yuri can pull it off.” Yuri, who was scowling at Yakov, now flashes a quick glance at Victor that’s bright and hot like open flame. 

“I’ll do it,” he says fiercely. He clenches the edge of the barrier, white-knuckled. “I’ll do it!”

“Wonderful,” says Victor. “I look forward to seeing you perform it.”

* * * * *

The rest of the morning passes in a flash. Victor makes a point to compliment everyone who came to practice, taking time out of his own skating to watch the others perform or practice hard spots. Victor is aware of Yakov watching him through most of the morning, frowning but not saying anything. It’s okay—Victor can’t exactly blame his coach for being befuddled by Victor’s behavior, but he’s stopped worrying about whether or not he should try to explain the change.

He catches Yuuri as Yuuri is taking off his skates at the edge of the rink, in conversation with Celestino. “Hey,” Victor says, a little breathless from the way he hurried over. “We’re going to get lunch—you should come too!”

“Uh, I…” Yuuri breaks off, glancing at his coach. 

Celestino grins at him. “Go on, be social,” he says, waving a hand. “It’s the middle of the day, no one’s going to try to get you drunk at noon, Yuuri.”

“Ah, you underestimate Christophe,” Victor says very seriously. He has to laugh at the way Yuuri’s eyes go wide, before breaking into a grin.

“Alright, I’ll come,” he says. “Let me just get changed.”

Victor takes only enough time to collect Maccachin from where he was napping along one of the rows of bleachers before joining everyone at the exit. They leave the rink en masse, a little bubble of sweaty figure skaters shrieking in protest at the still-furious winds outside. Victor leads them to a nearby diner, one he chooses for its proximity to the rink as well as the menu that offers brunch even though it’s not a weekend. (It also technically doesn’t allow dogs, but on this shockingly snowy Friday, the staff doesn’t seem to care much.) They spread out at a big table in the back of the restaurant, everyone chattering happily as they warm up from the cold. 

As much as Victor wants to sit next to Yuuri, he can’t, just yet. This is his best opportunity for his next task, and he’s determined to get it right. He gets his chance after everyone orders and their drinks are delivered, when Christine and Arianna get up to visit the restrooms, leaving Chris and Victor sitting temporarily by themselves at their end of the table.

Victor nudges Chris with his foot under the table. “Hey,” he says softly.

“Yeeeees?” Chris bats his long eyelashes at Victor, taking a sip of his mimosa. “Fishing for compliments on your new and exciting routine?”

“Eh?” It takes him a moment, but then Victor laughs. “Oh, no, that routine’s for Yuri. I promised I’d choreograph him one awhile ago, it’s honestly way overdue. No, I just had something I wanted to tell you.”

Chris raises both his eyebrows. “I’m listening,” he says. His voice is mild, but Victor knows better. 

“I was not good to you in Paris,” Victor says softly. “I jerked you around, and you deserve better.”

Christophe says nothing to this, but his brow furrows a little bit. He takes another sip of his drink, seemingly waiting for Victor to say his piece. Victor bites his lip. “I’m not good at this,” he says after a moment. “But I just wanted to you know that…I’m sorry. And I know I need to stop taking people for granted. I hope you find someone who treats you like a prince.”

Chris sets his champagne glass down. He twirls it where it sits on the table for a moment, finger and thumb spinning the stem, the frothy cocktail inside swirling. “Well, thanks for saying so,” he says finally. “Did you hit your head or something?”

Victor smiles at him. “Something like that,” he says, and is grateful when Chris laughs and returns his smile.

“You’re a good man, Victor,” Chris says, and clinks his glass against Victor’s coffee mug. “Even if it sometimes takes you awhile to remember it.”

“I’m trying,” Victor says, which is the truest thing he’s said all day.

The food is good—probably fattier than any of them should be indulging in considering they’re all supposed to compete again in the next 48 hours, but none of the coaches came along to judge them for their choices. Maccachin roams up and down the table, giving everyone big doggy eyes and perked ears as he begs for scraps. Their waitress is a sweet woman in her thirties named Dinah (different from the woman who serves them when Victor came here in the morning with Yuuri), her dirty blond hair swept back in a messy bun. Victor follows her to the drink station towards the end of the meal to give her his credit card. 

“I’m paying for this,” he says, smiling at her to reassure her. “Here, you can go ahead and run it now.” He waits patiently for the receipts, and then digs out a wad of cash from his wallet. 

“This is for you,” he says, and lowers his voice. “It’s enough for your rent and your son’s medical bill. Shh, please just take it, okay? You’ve been great.”

Dinah stares at him, clutching the money in her hand like she’s just been handed the keys to the city. Her eyes well with tears. “But you—how did you—you can’t—“

“It’s fine, I promise,” Victor says. He reaches out and grips her shoulder. “You’re a good mom. Don’t beat yourself up, okay? Everything will be fine.” Dinah stammers something virtually incomprehensible, and then throws her arms around Victor, hugging him hard. Victor hugs back, politely ignoring the way she sniffles messily against his shoulder.

When Victor pulls away, he sees Yuuri at the end of the aisle, watching him. Victor holds a finger up to his lips and whispers _shhh_ , and Yuuri flushes and nods before heading back to the table. Victor half-expects Yuuri to say something, to either him or to the others at the table, but aside from the contemplative look he sends Victor’s way, he seems content to keep his thoughts to himself.

Once his friends realize that Victor paid the bill, he has to endure a few minutes of harassment and thank you’s as everyone gets themselves together and shuffles towards the door. Victor waits patiently for the table to empty, trying not to get his hopes up too much—but he perks up anyway when Yuuri lingers behind after everyone else, watching Victor with that complicated expression on his face.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Victor says. No matter how much practice he gets, he knows he’s got what Chris calls his “doe eyes” at the moment, unable to keep from staring at Yuuri. Victor smiles, and Yuuri smiles back at him, still unsure.

“What’s gotten into you today?” Yuuri asks finally. “You seem… different.”

Victor bites his lip. “I would tell you, but you’ll have trouble believing me,” he says. Yuuri’s eyebrows go up.

“Try me,” says Yuuri. “I want to know.”

Good, Victor thinks. It won’t be hard to persuade him to stay with Victor until the phone call comes, at least. “Well, alright,” Victor says, and starts to button up his coat. “But I did warn you.”

They head back out into the world, Maccachin trotting happily at their side. The worst of the snowstorm is over now, just some flurries left to tousle their hair as the temperature starts to drop. Victor lets Yuuri choose where to go, and he takes them out deeper into the city, going slowly as they make their way down snow-choked sidewalks.

By this point, Victor has plenty of practice telling Yuuri what’s going on. Watching the skepticism turn slowly to belief and incredulity has gotten easier; the gut-level fear that Yuuri will think he’s insane, or playing a mean-spirited trick, has not. This time, Yuuri slows to a halt at the end of a street full of boutiques and cafes, studying Victor’s face. 

“How many times have you had this conversation?” he asks at last. 

Victor shakes his head. “Too many times,” he says, but he’s smiling. “But you always believe me, for some reason.” Yuuri blinks, turning a little red and dropping his gaze for a moment. Victor wants badly to lean in and kiss him, but he holds himself back, for now. 

“What do you want to do now?” Victor asks, by way of dispelling the awkwardness. Yuuri looks up at him again. “We can walk around more, or go see a movie, or just go back to the hotel…?”

Yuuri considers for a few moments. “Let’s walk around a bit more,” he says. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen so much snow.”

“Okay,” says Victor, and lets Yuuri lead the way, Victor and Maccachin trailing behind him.

* * * * *

When they run into Oksana, it’s actually a coincidence, for once—Victor has been letting Yuuri continue to take the lead, wandering idly up and down the streets, taking in the sight of Sochi in her snowy dress. And it’s not actually Oksana they run into first, but her poodle Valerik, who comes bounding up to Maccachin barking up a storm. The two run in mad circles, barking and wagging their tails in delight. Victor starts laughing as Maccachin tears off into the small park they’re walking along the edge of, romping through the snow like he’s never seen it before in his life. Valerik chases after him just as Oksana runs up, huffing and puffing in her parka with what is clearly Valerik’s leash clutched in her hand.

“Valerik!” she exclaims, in Russian. “What are you doing?” She’s just as adorable as Victor remembers: covered in freckles, barely Yuuri’s height and chubby, with beautiful blonde hair she’s wearing in a plait down her back. She sighs in exasperation as Valerik ignores her in favor of tearing around the park with Maccachin.

“They’re excited,” Victor says with a smile. He responds in English, mostly because he knows Yuuri’s Russian is basically nonexistent. Yuuri is watching the dogs play with a small grin on his face, so he doesn’t see the way Oksana’s eyes fall on Victor and then get huge. 

“V-V-Victor Nikiforov!” she squeaks. She glances at Yuuri, then back to Victor, switching to English. “Oh my god! It’s really you!”

“It’s me,” Victor agrees, giving her a warm smile. 

Oksana is already digging through her pockets for what turns out to be her phone, complete with dangly poodle charm. “Can I please get a picture?” she asks breathlessly. 

“Of course,” says Victor. Yuuri holds his hand out for her phone, and then Victor tugs Oksana over so that the snowy park is their backdrop. He beams at Yuuri, his arm around Oksana’s shoulder. 

Yuuri smiles back at them, then holds the phone up to his face. “Okay, smile!” He takes several photos, and Victor knows that in every single one of them Oksana will be beaming so widely that her smile must be competing with the sun for its brilliance. 

“Thank you so much!” Oksana takes her phone back from Yuuri, flipping through the photos and doing a little dance right there on the sidewalk. “Can I get one with you, too, Yuuri?”

Yuuri blinks at her in surprise. “What, me?”

“Of course!” she cries. “You’re Japan’s best skater, I love your short program!”

“Oh,” says Yuuri, and turns a red that might be attractive on a brick wall, but is less so on a human being. Victor rescues him by taking the phone and then maneuvering him and Oksana to stand in front of the park, before backing up and grinning at the two of them.

“Smile big!” Victor raises the phone and takes several pictures, trying a few different angles. “Okay, now one more, a selfie this time!” Before Yuuri can protest, Victor comes over and drapes his arm around Oksana’s shoulders, so that she’s sandwiched between Yuuri and Victor, and then holds the phone out as far as his arm can reach. “Say cheeeeeese!” 

The selfies are mostly hilarious garbage—Yuuri’s got his mouth open like a wide-mouthed bass in one, and in another Victor is cross-eyed for some reason—because Victor’s not good at taking photos with his left hand, but Oksana is thrilled. She flips through all the pictures, beaming from ear to ear. “Thank you so much!” she says, and hugs her phone against her chest. “The other skate club members will be so jealous—“

“Skate club,” Victor repeats, and barely manages to swallow the _that’s right, you’re the president_ that nearly falls out. 

“Yes!” Oksana messes with her phone for a moment, then leans over to show Yuuri and Victor another picture. This one is of her with about a dozen other people of various ages and sizes, though most appear to be 20 or younger. They’re on the ice with their skates strapped on, Oksana right smack in the middle with the same huge smile on her face. 

“We tried to get tickets to the Grand Prix Final, but it was sold out,” Oksana adds, drooping a little bit. “But we’ve been having a viewing party at Alarik’s instead, so that’s been good.”

“Ah, I see,” says Victor. He glances over at Yuuri, an idea forming in his head. Yuuri raises his eyebrows at Victor, but he’s smiling. Maybe some day he’ll learn not to smile so much around Victor, since it makes what little common sense Victor has go straight out the window. “Say. Do you think you could get ahold of the skate club, and tell them to meet somewhere in a few hours?”

Oksana looks at him curiously. “I think so, yeah,” she says. “Why?”

“There’s a park near here, with a pond that’s frozen over,” Victor says. “Do you think your skate club friends would like to go skating with me and Yuuri and any other skaters I can collect?”

Oksana’s eyes get huge. “Yes! Oh, that would be amazing!!” She does another little dance, throwing her arms around Victor in another spontaneous hug. She inflicts the same on Yuuri before Yuuri can do much more than stammer something polite, then immediately starts messaging people.

Ultimately they make plans to meet at the frozen pond around five pm—it’ll be just after sundown, but Victor points out that they probably need a few hours to get everything organized. Luckily, the park they’re going to has lots of lighting, since it’s in the middle of a city. Victor and Oksana send out a few mass texts with details, and then they call back their dogs, Maccachin returning first with Valerik tailing behind him. Oksana heads out, waving enthusiastically as she walks away.

“Sorry for volunteering you to go skate with a bunch of strangers,” Victor says to Yuuri. Yuuri smiles, pushing his glasses up his face.

“I don’t mind,” he says. “Did you notice that girl has a poodle just like Maccachin?”

“I did,” says Victor with a small smile. “I’m flattered, I thought it was sweet.” Yuuri says nothing to this, but he colors a little and smiles at his feet. Victor is glad that Maccachin distracts them both by head-butting Yuuri’s hip, hoping for head scratches. It saves him from saying something else entirely inappropriate.

* * * * * 

Mari’s phone call comes while they’re still out and about, but one other thing happens before that.

It’s actually another accident—this time a pile-up involving two cars and a city bus. It’s not a bad one, just messy because of the ice and snow, but Victor is already halfway across the road when the first car rear-ends the bus. Victor hears Yuuri’s shout from behind him on the sidewalk, but he ignores it, grabbing the hand of the young woman crossing the street and yanking her out of the path of the accident in the nick of time. 

“о боже!” Marta clutches at Victor’s arm, staring in shock as the bus plows through the spot she was just standing in and smashes into the side of another car. 

“Come over here,” says Victor kindly. He guides her over to the sidewalk where Yuuri is standing, white-faced and clutching Maccachin’s collar to prevent him bounding into traffic after Victor. Marta stands on the sidewalk next to Yuuri while Victor gets out his phone and calls emergency services. Yuuri hovers between Marta and Victor, clearly torn as to who he’s more worried about.

People are piling out of the cars and bus in front of them, complaining loudly at each other. Victor spies a few bloody noses and limps, but he knows he’s already rescued the one fatality this accident usually incurs. “You should probably stay out of the street the rest of today,” Victor says to Marta. Her lower lip trembles, and when Victor holds open his arms, she accepts, hugging him tightly. 

“Thank you,” she says shakily. Victor pats her shoulder, and then he and Yuuri head on their way.

“That was scary,” Yuuri says to him, as they walk away. “I thought you were going to get run over.” Victor startles slightly as Yuuri takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. He glances down at their joined hands, then up at Yuuri. Yuuri flushes and starts to take his hand back, but Victor tightens his grip, tugging Yuuri in a little closer. 

He lifts Yuuri’s hand, gently kissing Yuuri’s gloved knuckles. Yuuri watches him with wide eyes. “Sorry,” Victor murmurs, holding Yuuri’s gaze. “I didn’t mean to scare you. But…” He smiles, letting their hands drop again, though he doesn’t let go of Yuuri. “Someone whose opinion is very important to me made me see what a waste it would be for me to go through—whatever this is, and not try my best to help whoever I can.”

Yuuri lets out a sigh. “Majikayo?” he mutters under his breath, but his voice is fond. “Shou ga nai…”

“Sou desu. Shou ga nai,” Victor agrees, smiling. Yuuri elbows him in the ribs. 

They’re halfway back to the hotel when Yuuri’s phone goes off; Victor slows automatically as Yuuri digs it out of his coat and answers it. Maccachin circles around them like a nervous shark, bumping up against Yuuri’s legs. Yuuri says almost nothing, and Victor is careful to avert his eyes, but he still can hear the exact moment when the air catches in Yuuri’s throat, Yuuri’s hand in his tightening. Victor reaches over, tugging Yuuri in to lean against him, giving him something solid to brace himself against. 

Yuuri’s only on the phone for a minute, two at most, but by the time he hangs up he’s leaning heavily against Victor. Victor wraps his arms around Yuuri, gathering him close, and Yuuri buries his face against Victor’s shoulder. They stand there for a little while, until Yuuri’s shoulders stop shaking and he lifts his head, wiping at his face. 

“Ugh,” Yuuri says, grimacing. “I m-made a mess on your coat…”

“It’s fine,” Victor says, softly. He actually could not care less about the coat, and not just because it’ll be magically dry-cleaned in the morning. 

Yuuri glances up at him; his face is splotchy and red from crying, a situation not helped by the wind or the increasing chill in the air. He pulls his glasses off, wiping uselessly at them with his scarf. “You knew that call was coming, didn’t you.” It’s not a question.

“I did,” says Victor. “I’m so sorry, Yuuri.” 

Yuuri sighs. “Thanks,” he says, and sniffles. He puts his glasses back on his face, glancing down at Maccachin, who is still leaning against his leg. For a moment Victor thinks Yuuri is going to start crying again, but he masters himself and takes a deep breath. “I feel so guilty,” he says instead. “I—hadn’t seen him in almost five years.”

“We give up a lot to chase our dreams,” Victor says. Yuuri nods, still watching Maccachin, reaching down to stroke behind the dog’s ears. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” says Yuuri at last. This time, he’s the one who takes Victor’s hand.

* * * * *

When they get back to the hotel, Victor asks Yuuri if he’d rather go to his own room, but Yuuri declines. “Mine’s kind of a disaster right now,” he says. So they proceed up to Victor’s instead, where Victor makes them both tea with the little kettle that comes in the room. They curl up on the couch, Victor allowing himself to be quietly grateful for the way Yuuri settles against his side.

“Why do you think you’re stuck in this loop?” Yuuri asks after a little while. Victor glances down at him in surprise; Yuuri went so long without saying anything that Victor actually thought he was asleep.

“Well,” he says, and pauses. 

Yuuri must hear the hesitation, because he sits up enough to look Victor in the face. “You don’t have to tell me,” he says. “I was just curious.”

“No, I want to tell you,” Victor says. He smiles ruefully. “It just sounds sort of crazy.”

“Crazier than being stuck repeating the same day over and over?” Yuuri raises his eyebrows, and Victor laughs.

“Maybe,” says Victor. “I don’t know.” He sighs, and then, glancing at Yuuri for permission, he lifts an arm and carefully drapes it around Yuuri’s shoulders. Yuuri re-settles against Victor, and the warmth of his body gives Victor the courage to talk.

“I keep having this dream, almost every night,” he begins. He keeps his voice quiet, nothing but the sound of Maccachin snoring to intrude on the silence of the room. “I’m walking in this huge forest, in the middle of winter, and I get to a—house. On chicken legs. And there’s a woman inside, waiting for me. And when I go in, she asks me if I’ve found what I’m looking for yet.”

“Then what happens?” Yuuri’s eyes are still a bit red-rimmed from tears and the wind, but they’re still beautiful, especially up close. Victor gazes at him for a few moments before he responds, just drinking in the sight of him.

“Nothing,” he says. “I just wake up.”

Yuuri frowns. “Who’s the woman supposed to be? Or is it just a dream?”

Victor shakes his head. “There’s an old Russian folktale about her,” he says slowly. “A witch named Baba Yaga. And—sometimes she’s out to make trouble, but sometimes she’s there to help you, too. It just depends.” He sighs. “See, I told you it sounded crazy.”

“I actually think it would be crazier if it was happening for no reason at all,” Yuuri says.

“I suppose,” says Victor. Yuuri makes a noise, and Victor glances down at him, only to see Yuuri gazing steadily at him from just inches away. His face is pink with what Victor suspects is embarrassment, but he looks determined.

“Victor,” he begins, and then trails off. 

Victor smiles. “You don’t have to ask,” he says, very quietly. Yuuri’s eyes widen just a bit, and then he leans up, closing the gap between them to kiss Victor. Victor kisses back, slow and intimate, every fiber of his being aching with how sweet it is to kiss this man, no matter how many times he does it.

Victor’s the one to break it off, pulling back with a little shiver. “Victor?” Yuuri sounds apprehensive, and Victor raises his hand, cupping Yuuri’s cheek, smoothing his thumb along Yuuri’s cheekbone.

“Sorry,” Victor says. “I just—I want you to know that—“ He takes a deep breath, his voice suddenly and traitorously shaky. “Whatever happens today, or tomorrow… when I’m with you, I’m happy. And I have no regrets.” 

Yuuri face goes soft at this. He reaches up, tucking some of Victor’s hair out of his face, the barest brush of fingertips. “I’m glad,” he says simply, and kisses Victor again.

* * * * *

They waste a few more hours inside, but end up not doing much else aside from kissing, which Victor finds faintly astonishing. He’s long since lost track of how many times Yuuri has come willingly into his bed, but the pure need Victor feels for him has only burned stronger over time instead of diminishing.

But today feels different. Victor isn’t sure why, but he doesn’t mind it either. That’s one of the things he loves so much about Yuuri, after all, his ability to continue to surprise Victor every single day. 

Four thirty rolls around. Almost everyone Victor texted has agreed to come meet Oksana’s skate club in the park, although several of them are just coming along for fun, since many of them are supposed to compete the next day. Victor, of course, knows otherwise, but he also knows that that doesn’t actually matter. 

Mila offered to head to the rink and collect extra pairs of skates for everyone who’s going to participate, which is very thoughtful of her. Victor pauses, glancing up at Yuuri, who’s just emerged from the bathroom. “Do you still feel up to doing this?” he asks. “Meeting the skate club, I mean.”

“Yeah, actually,” says Yuuri. “It’ll be better than staying in and cr—and winding myself up, anyway.”

At this, Victor softens. “You’re too hard on yourself,” he says, before he can stop himself.

Yuuri drops his eyes and sighs. “I know,” he says after a moment. “But it’s—not like I can just turn it off.”

Victor hesitates a moment before answering, choosing his words carefully. “No, I guess not,” he says. “But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to make you feel better.”

Yuuri glances up, catching Victor watching him. He smiles very slightly. “Thanks,” he says. “Let’s get going, or we’ll be late.”

They end up being late anyway, because Maccachin doesn’t want to be left in the room despite the fact that Victor isn’t sure about bringing him to somewhere that will likely have a lot of people. He also feels bad just knowing what Maccachin reminds Yuuri of, but by now Yuuri has calmed down enough to catch on. “You don’t have to leave him behind just for me,” Yuuri says, after Victor has tried and failed to coax Maccachin into the living room.

Victor looks at him. “Are you sure?”

“I promise,” says Yuuri. 

Later, Victor will remember that it was Yuuri who encouraged Victor to bring his dog, and wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t. But at the time, he’s got too much else on his mind to even think about it twice.

By the time they arrive at the park, Christophe and JJ are both already there, along with Oksana and half of her skate club. Oksana is already out on the ice, skating around with a smaller pigtailed version of herself that Victor knows is her younger sister. As soon as she spies Victor and Yuuri, Oksana comes over to the edge of the pond, waving enthusiastically. “You came!” she cries.

“Of course I did,” says Victor, grinning widely. “And look, I brought friends.”

“You’re lucky we don’t compete tomorrow,” remarks Chris, but he’s smiling too. Victor can see several of the younger skate club members regarding the professional skaters with wide eyes, clutching each other’s hands for extra security. 

Mila arrives then, along with Yuri, the remaining skaters appearing within ten minutes. Soon everyone in the men’s senior division—the one group that won’t compete the next day—are all out on the ice, along with about half of Oksana’s skate club. Victor is particularly delighted by Oksana’s little sister Svetlana, who is all of six years old and just as fearless as her big sister. She squeals in excitement as Victor and Yuuri take turns skating with her, and not even falling down repeatedly seems to faze her. 

Victor honestly wasn’t sure that anyone else would think this was a great idea as he did, but much to his relief, everyone who came seems to be having a wonderful time. Even Yuri Plisetsky sheds his grumpy demeanor just enough to enjoy himself. Maccachin and Valerik are playing together like they did earlier, chasing each other around the snowy park and barking joyously. 

Perhaps taking a cue from the morning, someone (it’s definitely JJ) puts on music, blaring tinnily from a portable set of USB speakers. JJ proves he’s just as big a ham as Christophe is by performing a variation on his short program for the skate club, who react with unmitigated delight, clapping and cheering him on. Over by the edge of the pond, Victor catches sight of a tow-headed slip of a girl listening raptly to Mila, who’s clearly talking through the finer points of one of her routines. 

Yuuri finds himself the center of attention of a pair of twelve-year-olds, a boy and a girl, who beg and plead until he agrees to show them his short program. Their sheer rapture seems to fluster Yuuri, so much so that he forgets to be self-conscious when they harass him for photos once he’s done. Victor smiles, and skates back over to the other side of the pond to check on Oksana’s sister.

By the time they’re done, roughly 90 minutes later, a small crowd has gathered to watch the skating. Victor’s stomach is growling, and he’s sure the others are just as hungry, but he waits patiently until everyone has gotten the pictures with everyone they want before he goes to collect Yuuri. He’s just opening his mouth to ask if Yuuri wants to go try a Vietnamese restaurant a few blocks away when Oksana comes running up to them. 

One look at her anxious face, and the smile on Victor’s lips dies. “What’s wrong?” he asks. This part is new. He doesn’t know why, but something is different, and he doesn’t like it.

“Valerik has run off,” she says tearfully. “I don’t know where he is, I can’t find him anywhere!”

Victor catches his breath, glancing automatically at Yuuri before he can catch himself. But Yuuri isn’t looking at Victor at all. “Let’s look around,” Yuuri says. “We’ll help you.” 

“Yes, we will,” says Victor firmly. 

They split up—a few members from Oksana’s skate club haven’t left yet, and neither have Mila or Yuri. (Yuri grumbles loudly about having to look for ‘some stupid girl’s dog,’ but Mila elbows him in the ribs before Victor gets the chance, and he subsides.) Victor, Maccahin, Yuuri, and Oksana are initially in one group, but Maccachin changes that when his ears perk up for just a moment, right before he bolts.

“Maccachin!” Victor yells. Without even thinking, he takes off after his dog. 

Maccachin is normally very well-behaved, coming when Victor calls him and knowing better than to do something like chase cars. But right now he seems hell-bent on ignoring Victor utterly. Victor chases him down six blocks and across a main road, and it isn’t until he sees the other nearly-identical shape of a poodle running along the beach they’re approaching that he realizes why. 

“Valerik!” he yells. Up ahead, Maccachin is still running, but the other dog is either ignoring them or too fascinated by something else to care. He’s hurrying along near the water, as though something desperately interesting is lurking just beneath the waves. A bone-chilling wind blows in off the water, the Black Sea looming dark and foreboding off to Victor’s left. Victor shivers, nearly stumbling over some stones as he runs along the beach towards the two dogs. “Valerik! Maccachin! Come here!”

To his surprise, Maccachin actually listens. Victor’s dog turns and comes running back to him, but his bark is sharp, agitated. He runs in a circle around Victor and then darts ahead of him again; Victor’s eyes track his progress—and then up ahead he sees Valerik dart into the water. “VALERIK, NO!”

Victor doesn’t even think. He rips off his coat and boots and sprints as fast as he can along the beach, towards the spot where Valerik disappeared into the sea. He hears yelping, high and scared, and catches a glimpse of Valerik a good fifteen meters out, the dog’s head just breaking the surface before being swept under again. “Valerik!” Victor yells, and runs into the black water.

The shock of the cold hits him like a brick wall, fierce as the bite of a wild animal. Victor swears, stumbling as another wave surges forward. He wades deeper into the water, then dives forward, swimming towards the sound of the frightened yelping. Everything is cold and dark, icy hands snatching at his face, his arms, his legs. Victor is healthy, athletic, but when he swims it’s in heated pools, and the undertow is treacherous. 

_Don’t die,_ Victor thinks grimly. He flashes on the way Yuuri’s face crumples when he gets that phone call, and then the water crashes over Victor’s head again, blotting out other thoughts. Victor swears, struggling to break the surface and look around for Valerik. Distantly, back on the shore, he can hear Maccachin barking his head off, but something about the water makes it sound much too distant, like his dog is blocks away instead of thirty meters behind him. 

“VALERIK!” Victor yells, and gets a mouthful of water for his trouble. He goes under again, nearly losing track of which end is up. This time, when he breaks the surface, he catches a glimpse of something in the water. Victor’s arms and legs already feel too heavy, his clothes weighing him down, but he redoubles his efforts and swims towards the stray dog. Almost—he’s almost there, if he can just—“GOTCHA,” he gasps, his frozen hands finding Valerik’s collar. 

Valerik whines, a horrible frightened noise. Victor gets an arm around the dog, and then turns back towards what he hopes desperately is the shore. The going is twice as hard, the cold water sucking at his legs and free arm, and Valerik’s weight sinks them lower in the water. Victor keeps getting pulled under, the water threatening to swallow them both, but he just keeps swimming in the direction of Maccachin’s barking. 

Finally, finally, Victor’s frozen feet scrape against bottom. He swears a blue streak and feels his teeth chattering; his sodden clothes feel like icy arms that are loathe to let him leave the sea. With the last of his strength, Victor surges forward, getting his other arm around Valerik to keep from losing him in the water again, and abruptly he’s wading instead of swimming, the water still swirling around his hips. “Haaa….” Victor stumbles as he comes forward, nearly dropping the dog.

He looks up, and ahead of him stands a woman, right on the edge of the beach. Her hair is black, bound in braids around her head. The wind coming off the Black Sea whips her heavy skirts around, but she stands perfectly still, watching him emerge. 

Victor stalls in the water, squinting in disbelief. It isn’t—it can’t be—Victor blinks, trying to clear his vision from the water that’s stinging his eyes.

And just like that, she’s gone. Another wave hits Victor in the small of his back, making him stumble, and he curses again, shuffling forward till the water is at knee-level, then his ankles. He staggers out of the sea and makes it about ten feet before he collapses, Valerik scrambling to get up on all fours as Victor flops onto the frozen beach. 

“блять,” says Victor loudly. 

He sucks cold air into his lungs, and breaks into a coughing spasm at the icy bite, immediately starting to shiver. Victor reaches for the hem of his soaked shirt, blearily thinking that he ought to take off all his wet clothes. But his fingers are numb from cold, and he can’t get a grip with how badly his limbs have started to shake. 

_That’s not good,_ Victor thinks. It’s distant, detached. That’s also probably bad. 

He doesn’t know how long he lays like that, shivering and trying vainly to get his clothes off. Eventually he gives up, his shirt half-off, pants undone, and he can no longer feel his fingers or toes but he’s also starting not to care, which is a relief. 

The sound of a dog barking breaks into his fugue. Victor turns his head, and sees a dog coming hurtling towards him down the beach—it’s Maccachin, he thinks. Not wet enough to be Valerik. And behind Maccachin are several figures, also running, though it’s too dark for Victor to make out who it is. He can hear voices calling his name, though, and they’re familiar. 

“Oh, Maccachin, you brought me some friends,” Victor says. His voice is faint in his own ears. Maybe he’ll just shut his eyes for a second, he thinks. Just for a moment. 

Victor’s last thought before he passes out is that Yakov is going to be very mad at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my Russian is only my best guess after research so please forgive me if I've goofed, but:  
> \+ "о боже" means "Oh my God"  
> \+ "блять" means "Fuck"
> 
> The Japanese is roughly translated thusly:  
> \+ "Majikayo? Shou ga nai…" as Yuuri uses it, means "Seriously? I guess there's nothing to be done..." It's very fond.  
> \+ "Sou desu. Shou ga nai." means (as Victor uses it) "That's right. Nothing to be done." (Victor is being a shit.)


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how dark and long the winter, spring always follows after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The holidays chewed up my free time, and then this last chapter became much longer than I expected--everyone please give a round of applause to my beta for reading this for me on her plane trip en route to her vacation! Please accept this extra-long chapter with a very explicit section as apology for the wait. Thank you so much for reading!

Something is beeping.

Victor wrinkles his nose, shifting slightly. The beeping is both annoying and nearby, too close to ignore. “Ugh,” he mutters, rolling onto his side. As he does so, something tugs painfully at his arm. 

“Ow,” says Victor, and opens his eyes. 

For a few seconds, he has no idea where he is. Then his eyes fall on the plastic tube taped to his arm, trailing from near his wrist up to a clear plastic bag on an IV pole, and he realizes he’s in a hospital room. That explains the smell, he thinks. The IV tubing passes through a box, and a red light flashes next to a screen on the box’s face—that’s what’s beeping. The next thing Victor registers is that it’s very warm in this room, but instead of being oppressive, he’s still a little chilly, despite the veritable mountain of blankets piled atop him.

That’s when realization hits. He sits up too fast, and a cramp shoots up his back, making him gasp. He must be louder than he realizes, because someone slouched on the other side of the room stirs. Victor looks over to see Yakov sitting up in his chair, rubbing at his face. 

“Yakov…” Victor winces; his voice sounds _terrible._

“You’re awake,” Yakov says. Victor braces internally for a thorough chewing-out, but Yakov just gets up from the chair and comes over to the bedside, moving very stiffly. “How are you feeling?”

Victor actually has to think about it for a minute. The answer is both surprising and somehow delightful. “Not great,” he says. “Everything hurts. But, uh… w-what day is it?”

“Saturday,” says Yakov. “They took you to the hospital last night. It’s almost five am.” 

“Oh,” says Victor weakly. He can’t help the smile that breaks across his face, tremulous and painful as it is. He can feels his eyes watering, and when he swipes a hand distractedly across them it comes away wet.

Yakov grunts. “You’re an idiot,” he says. Theeeere it is, Victor thinks, and lets out a noise that’s half-laugh, half-sob. 

“Vitya—“

“Sorry for making you worry,” Victor croaks, and then starts laughing as tears stream down his face. Yakov lets out an exasperated sigh. He shoves the bedrail down and sits on the edge of the mattress, reaching over to gather Victor into his arms, gentle as a mother with a newborn. Victor can only imagine how unattractive and dumb he looks right now: dirty, unwashed, half-dead, sniffling into his coach’s shoulder and clad in just a drab hospital gown, but he’s so happy he can’t even speak.

After a few minutes, Victor manages to collect himself, and he sits back, wiping at his face. Yakov pretends to study a pattern on one of the blankets while Victor blows his nose, but he does not get up from the bed. “Okay,” says Victor finally. “Tell me what happened, please.”

The story is brief, but still makes Victor cringe a little. When Victor bolted after Maccachin, Oksana and Yuuri were first concerned, and then—when Maccachin turned up, barking furiously and yanking at Yuuri’s coat with his teeth, noticeably sans Victor—they had turned frantic. They’d followed Maccachin to the beach, where they’d found Victor unconscious and half-frozen, his clothes soaked through. 

“Your lips were blue, and you wouldn’t wake up,” Yakov says, expression stony. “The girl was hysterical. You’re lucky Katsuki kept his head.”

“I’m very lucky,” says Victor, and mentally adds, in more ways than one. “Ah, but what about the other dog? Oksana’s dog? Was he okay?”

Yakov snorts. “Of course you’d ask about the dog! Yes, her dog was fine. Why would—“ Yakov stops abruptly, eyes narrowing. “You went into the fucking Black Sea after the _dog_?”

“Yes,” says Victor. “He would have drowned.”

“Unbelievable,” mutters Yakov, and shakes his head. “Well, Katsuki called an ambulance, and they brought you here. I joined them here when I got the call.”

Victor lets out a soft sigh. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Um, but… are they going to keep me? Do you know?” He fiddles a little with the blanket, feeling unsure of what to say or do for the first time in what seems like years. It’s an incredible feeling.

Yakov’s expression somehow sours more, no doubt breaking some kind of record. “They want to keep you until they’re sure there’s been no complications,” he says. “I think the doctors are worried about pneumonia.”

“Oh,” says Victor. He’s about to ask more questions when there’s a knock at the door and the nurse comes in, apparently having overheard their voices. She kicks Yakov off the bed to take Victor’s vital signs, check his IV line, and go through a series of questions, apparently checking to see if Victor has suffered any sort of cognitive impairment from his ordeal. Victor goes along with everything obediently, waiting until she seems to be done before he asks any more questions.

“Do you think I might be able to leave today?” he asks, hopeful. 

The nurse—a no-nonsense woman in her thirties with close-cropped red hair—glances at him, and then softens just a touch. “Well, it’s not my call,” she says, “but I doubt it. If you wanted to be healthy enough to compete, you shouldn’t have gone running into the sea on the coldest day of the year.” With that, she vanishes.

“You’re not competing,” Yakov says, from his perch in the chair at the side of the room. Victor turns towards him, startled, opening his mouth to protest on instinct, but Yakov holds up a hand. “I don’t want you collapsing on the ice and being rushed back to the hospital. I’ve already notified the officials.”

Victor stares at his coach for a moment, feeling himself bristle like a startled porcupine, and then he just deflates. “You’re right,” he says. “It’s not safe. I don’t feel up to it, honestly.”

Yakov already had his mouth open, no doubt ready with another argument, but he snaps it shut in frank astonishment at Victor’s agreement. “Well,” he says after a few moments, “well—good.” He blows his air out and crosses his arms over his chest, as though Victor failing to argue with him has put him out of sorts somehow. 

“I was just hoping I would get to watch Yuri and Mila and everyone compete,” Victor says wistfully. “They’ve worked so hard to get here, I hate to miss it.”

Yakov grunts at this but says nothing. He does, however, get Victor his phone. Victor sends a mass text to all his friends, letting them know he’s awake and more or less intact, and then a second one that’s just addressed to Yuuri. This one says, _I’m awake. It’s a new day. I can’t believe it. Thank you for saving me._

He’s not expecting anyone to respond for another couple of hours—it’s too early—but he hasn’t even lain back down again before his phone just explodes. 

_Oh my god, you’re alive!!!! You scared the crap out of me!!_ Mila uses too many exclamation points, a bad habit Yuri has picked up. She doesn’t have his flair for curse words, though: _YOU STUPID FUCK, ARE YOU SENILE ALREADY? WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING, YOU IDIOT OLD MAN!_

Christophe calls him a half-dozen unkind names and then informs him that he’ll be very angry if he doesn’t get to beat Victor fair and square this year. Several others repeat this sentiment, including JJ, which Victor finds weirdly endearing. But it’s Yuuri’s message that makes Victor want to simultaneously hide under his covers and go running down the hall yelling for joy. 

_I can’t believe what you did, but I’m so glad you’re alright_ , it says. _Is it okay to come see you?_

After he gets ahold of himself, Victor sends a shaky message back: _Yes, please come see me!_

“You look awfully happy for someone who was hospitalized for hypothermia,” Yakov comments. He sounds disgusted, but Victor knows better.

“I can’t help it,” Victor says. He smiles at his coach, settling back down into bed and pulling the covers up to his shoulders. “I’m a lucky man.”

* * * * *

The morning passes in fits and starts. Victor drifts off again for a little while, until a breakfast tray arrives for him, reminding him that he’s actually ravenous. He’s almost done eating a half-decent attempt at pancakes and sausage when the doctors come in to evaluate his condition. Their verdict is swift, and unanimous.

“So far you seem to have no complications from your experience,” says the attending physician, a Ukrainian man in his mid-fifties with the bushiest mustache Victor has ever seen in his life. “But we’re going to keep you another twenty-four hours for observation and make sure you’re recovering fully before we discharge you. And under no circumstances should you consider competing tomorrow—it could cause a relapse, and we don’t want you back here.”

Victor’s face falls a little, but he nods. He’ll have to content himself with watching his friends compete on his computer, like much of the rest of the world. “Thank you for taking care of me,” he says. 

“Just make sure you come back next year to make Russia proud,” says one of the junior doctors. Victor smiles. 

He decides to get up and shower after that, and goes out for a walk around the unit, making sure to thank the nurses he recognizes who’ve been in his room caring for him. He’s still tired, though, and has every intention of laying back down for another nap, a plan which is immediately blown out of the water by the fleet of ice skaters who show up at his room, armed with flowers and stuffed animals. Virtually everyone who came out to practice the day before is there, save for the one Victor wants to see most of all.

“This is what happens when you try to skate on outdoor rinks, you amateur,” Chris says very seriously. He’s brought Victor a bottle of wine, with a “Get Well Soon” card and a strict warning that he’s not allowed to open the booze till after he’s out of the hospital. 

“You’re competing tomorrow, right?” demands JJ. 

It would be easy to duck responsibility for this, to foist off the blame on Yakov or the doctors for forbidding him. But Victor shakes his head, earning a round of disappointed noises. “I am very sorry,” he says, and finds that he means it. “I have been explicitly told I am to rest for at least a week, if not longer. It’s my own fault.” 

“Stupid old man,” Yuri says with a scowl. Mila wraps her arm around his face and neck in what could either be considered a hug or a KGB death-grip.

“It won’t be the same without you,” Mila says, while Yuri makes rude noises against her forearm. 

“I wanted to beat you fair and square,” Chris adds.

“I know,” says Victor, then adds with a smile, “I promise to wipe the floor with you at Worlds.” 

“Says the man with poor enough self-control to chase a dog into the Black Sea in the middle of winter,” Yuri says. Yakov stirs at this, narrowing his eyes across the room at his student. Yuri pointedly pretends not to notice, but he does shut up.

“Sometimes something more important than a competition happens,” Victor says mildly. “I don’t recommend the Black Sea for swimming, but I’d do it again.”

The nurse reappears soon after, shooing Victor’s visitors out, then returns to the bedside to take another set of vital signs. She makes a point to listen to Victor’s lungs and to check the color and pulses of his extremities. “Everything looks good,” she says in satisfaction. Victor thinks about asking her again if he might be able to leave today, but decides not to push his luck.

After she leaves, Victor lies down, letting out a long sigh. He glances over at Yakov, and finds his coach watching him with an inscrutable expression. “What?” asks Victor. 

Yakov purses his lips. “You’ve changed,” he says after a moment. “I’m just trying to figure out how I missed it.”

Victor gives Yakov a rueful smile. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” he says, which is at least true. “Maybe I just needed a wake-up call.”

“For what?”

“For not taking people for granted,” Victor says softly.

* * * * *

Eventually, Yakov leaves; he has other students he needs to support, after all, and Victor is no longer competing. Victor dozes, a half-assed sort of nap that he wakes from several times. The nurse keeps coming in to deliver more presents—letters, get well cards, flowers, boxes of candy. Victor stares at the pile of things in shock, maybe a little embarrassment.

Many of the cards are from people he helped yesterday, and these Victor feels most uncomfortable with for reasons he can’t quite put his finger on. He reads each card, fingers trembling a little bit. _I didn’t realize who you were till I saw your face on the news,_ reads one—it’s from Marta, the girl who nearly got hit by a bus. _You were my guardian angel yesterday, so please get better quickly!_

 _When I saw you were in the hospital I knew I had to write you_ , reads the card from Dinah, the waitress struggling to pay her infant son’s medical bills. _You saved Alexei’s life with your gift to us. Thank you so much. Please get better quickly._

There’s no letter with the bottle of expensive vodka Kontstantin sends, just a small card that reads, _Get better & win more gold medals - Konstantin_. Oksana is by far the sweetest and most embarrassing—she’s sent Victor a long, rambling note full of stumbling apologies that rescuing her dog landed Victor in the hospital, mixed in with profuse thanks and a thorough description of how ecstatic everyone was at the impromptu skate party they’d held. Victor has to actually fold it up and hide his face in his hands, he feels so unworthy.

And that’s really it. Victor can’t shake the feeling that he just doesn’t deserve any of the presents or thank yous he’s received. It should not have taken him hundreds—thousands—of repeats of one specific day to become aware of the effect he can have on other people, of the opportunity to simply do something worthwhile. It feels like being given an award for not looking the other way when someone starts to bleed to death in the street in front of him. 

But thinking about it is making his head hurt, and he’s so very tired today. Turns out nearly freezing to death on a beach will take it out of you, he thinks ruefully. And so Victor curls up under the eighteen or so blankets still piled on his bed, and drifts off again. 

He wakes a few hours later to someone wriggling around on the bed next to him. “Ah, no, get down from there!” says Yuuri’s voice in dismay. Victor’s heart lifts before he’s even fully awake; he’s already trying to sit up, but it’s hard when you have a lap full of excited poodle. 

“Maccachin,” sighs Yuuri, from where he stands at the foot of the bed. 

“You came!” Victor laughs as Maccachin all but smothers him, licking his face and wagging his tail so hard it’s a wonder it doesn’t fall off. Victor hugs his poodle, burying his face in Maccachin’s neck. “Thank you for saving me,” he whispers against one of Maccachin’s downy ears. 

He feels the bed dip, and when Victor pulls back it’s to see Yuuri sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching him. Victor feels his throat tighten _again_ ; maybe he should just give today up as a bad job and accept that he’s going to be a mess no matter what. He manages a shaky smile, and reaches out to take one of Yuuri’s hands. “Thank you for coming,” he says.

Yuuri squeezes his hand, and Victor squeezes back. “Sorry for not coming earlier, but I wanted to get you alone,” he says. “And—I thought I’d watch the livestream of the competition today with you. I brought my computer.”

Victor’s eyes widen. “You’re not going to go watch?”

Yuuri flushes a little, dropping his gaze. “Well, you can’t go,” he says. “And… I t-thought it’d be hard for you, since this is your first new day in awhile. Right?”

Victor has to swallow past the knot in his throat. “Right,” he says weakly. 

It takes some wrangling, because hospital beds are neither large nor comfortable, but eventually Yuuri is curled up next to Victor, Maccachin settled at their feet, Yuuri’s laptop shut on the bed in front of them. “Is this okay?” Yuuri asks.

“I think so,” Victor says. He can’t stop staring at Yuuri, whose brown eyes are extremely distracting from this close up. “I still don’t know how you got a dog past the nurses.”

The corners of Yuuri’s eyes crinkle as he breaks into a sheepish smile. “I told them he was your dog,” he says, and hesitates before adding, “and—and that you had texted me saying you were sad you couldn’t compete, so I was bringing him to you to make you feel better.”

Victor’s jaw drops open. Yuuri turns red and tries to hunch into his own shoulders, like some rare species of Japanese Box Turtle. Victor kisses him before he can manage it, though, and after a few shocked moments Yuuri kisses him back. Yuuri breaks off after a few moments, hiding his face against Victor’s neck. “What?” Victor asks, alarmed.

“It’s nothing bad, it’s just—“ Yuuri exhales, his warm breath against Victor’s neck making him break out in goosebumps. “Yesterday was… a lot to swallow,” he says. “I’m still not used to the idea of kissing you.”

Victor pulls back slightly, searching Yuuri’s face as though he’ll find the right words there. “I’m still not used to the fact that you remember me now,” he says very softly. 

Yuuri’s expression softens, some of his self-consciousness leaving; he studies Victor’s face, reaching up to push some of Victor’s messy hair out of his eyes. “Well, I do,” he murmurs, in Japanese. “And I will tomorrow, and the day after that, too.”

Victor finds that he’s smiling, even as his eyes sting treacherously. “And I will be grateful every single day,” he says. This time Yuuri’s the one who kisses him first. 

They watch the day’s performances on the livestream, still curled up in bed together. The nurse comes in to check on Victor at one point, and to reconnect his IV to another drip, but if she’s bothered by either Yuuri’s or Maccachin’s presence, she doesn’t bother to say so. 

Victor cheers when Yuri wins in his division, grabbing up his phone to send his fellow skater a congratulatory text, with a promise to take him out to celebrate as soon as they get a chance. Despite being not physically present, Victor finds he’s even more invested in the others’ routines than before. 

“Victor,” Yuuri says presently. Something in his voice isn’t quite right. Victor looks up from the feed where the medalists wave from the stand, the roar of the crowd drowning out nearly everything the announcers are saying. 

“Yes, Yuuri?” 

Yuuri looks at him, chewing his lower lip for a moment before answering. “…Did you ever figure out why you were stuck in that …loop? I mean. What’s changed?”

Victor takes a deep breath. Yuuri must be able to read something in Victor’s face, because he shuts the computer and pushes it down the bed, out of the way. Victor has to fight the urge to make a dumb joke or arch comment, to avert his gaze and deflect. Yuuri’s hand creeps into one of Victor’s, thumb gently stroking Victor’s palm, and Victor finds it’s enough to let him breathe a little easier. 

“I’ve changed, for one thing,” Victor says, slowly. “Before, I… At some point I became so focused on my career and my skating that I stopped even seeing anything else. I took people for granted. And—and I wasn’t happy, and I refused to admit it to myself.” 

Yuuri nods. “What about now?” he asks, when Victor has gone silent for several seconds. “Will you keep skating?”

Victor gazes at him. “I’m going to finish the season, at least, but after that I honestly don’t know,” he says at last. “I don’t really know what else I would do with myself, for one thing.” 

“You could be a coach, or a choreographer,” Yuuri says. “I’d hate to see you stop competing, but… You’ve always been amazing at coming up with routines, and you were great with the skate club last night.” 

Victor smiles at this, twining his and Yuuri’s fingers together absently. “I think I’d like that,” he says. “But who would want me as their coach when they could have someone like Yakov, or Celestino?”

“Are you kidding?” Yuuri demands. “Anyone would be lucky to have you. You’re the greatest skater alive right now, you—“ He breaks off, eyes widening a little as he seems to realize what he’s said.

Victor laughs. “Ah, such sweet flattery,” he says, teasing a little, digging his fingers into Yuuri’s ribs. Yuuri yelps and gives him an elbow in the stomach for his trouble, not that Victor minds. “But being a good skater doesn’t necessarily translate to being a good coach.”

Yuuri smiles a little, holding Victor’s gaze only for a moment before it drops to their lap again. “I still think you’d be great at it,” is all he says. 

Victor wraps his arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and pulls him in close, pressing his face to Yuuri’s soft hair. “Thank you, Yuuri,” he murmurs. It’s something to think about, at least.

* * * * *

Eventually, Yuuri has to leave, because he has to compete tomorrow and sleeping in a cramped hospital chair beforehand is not going to do him any favors. He takes Maccachin with him—apparently Victor’s dog spent the previous night with Yuuri, an idea that brings Victor almost as much joy as it does guilt. Guilt because he knows the loss of Vicchan is still fresh in Yuuri’s heart, but joy at the idea of the two lives he treasures most in the world curled up in a bed together.

Yuuri still seems flustered by their whole situation, quiet and a little jittery, but Victor promises to be at the rink to watch him skate, and that as much as anything else seems to bolster Yuuri’s confidence. Victor doesn’t dare to hope that Yuuri feels remotely the same way about Victor as Victor does about him, but the hope that one day he might is enough to lull him to sleep better than any lullaby. 

(Victor awakens just once, in the middle of the night, strains of the Rolling Stones echoing in his ears. His panic subsides almost immediately thanks to the IV tubing still taped to his arm, and he breathes a sigh of relief as he flops back down on the thin hospital mattress.)

As promised, Victor is discharged early the next day. Yakov is there to pick him up, though they end up having to borrow a cart from the unit Victor was on just to carry all his presents, flowers, and cards down to the car that will take them back to the Citrus Hotel. They’re swamped with paparazzi as soon as the car pulls up to the front of the hotel, and though Victor tries his hardest to be gracious and full of smiles, he’s still grateful that Yakov is there to glower everyone into submission as they make their way inside.

“Bottom feeders,” Yakov mutters, as he and Victor (and the metric ton of presents) get into the elevator.

“You only have me to blame,” Victor says mildly. Yakov shoots him a glance equal parts irritation and bafflement.

Victor waits until they get to his room before he gives in to the urge to hug his coach. Yakov grimaces, but returns an awkward hug anyway. Victor waits just a few more minutes until they’ve set everything down before he tells Yakov that he’s thinking of retiring at the end of this season.

Yakov crosses his arms, sitting in the chair by the desk as Victor shares this information. “I wish I could say I was surprised,” he says. “Your skating has been as excellent as ever, but your head hasn’t been right this season.”

He narrows his eyes. “But what are you going to do once you leave?”

Victor takes a deep breath. “I was thinking I might try my hand at coaching,” he says. “And—I was hoping you might be willing to guide me, if I go down that path. I would stay in St. Petersburg,” he adds. “For awhile, anyway. I can’t just abandon Yuri.”

Yakov lets out a long, put-upon sigh. “You’re the most obnoxious student I’ve ever had,” he says, scowling. Victor smiles and starts to get up again, but Yakov holds out a hand. “Don’t,” he said. “Try to hold on to a little of your dignity, at least.”

“Only because you asked me so nicely,” says Victor, and Yakov rolls his eyes.

* * * * *

Yakov stays with Victor long enough to make sure that he’s firmly settled in, and then takes his leave to go check on his other students. Victor would very much rather be visiting with his friends than stuck in his room, but almost everyone is getting ready for the final round of performances today. So he contents himself with rescuing Maccachin from the pet sitter, intending to take his dog out for a nice long walk.

(Maccachin keeps them from leaving right away, due to the way he keeps barking and jumping into Victor’s arms when Victor comes to retrieve him. The pet sitter tells Victor all about how well-behaved and friendly Maccachin was for him; Victor does not bother to tell the man that Maccachin knows him very well by now, because it would only confuse him. He settles for tipping the man well and coaxing his dog out the front doors of the hotel.)

The walk, short as it is, winds him more than it should; Victor has to stop and rest on a park bench more than once. But the day is already much warmer than the previous one, and though there’s still plenty of snow everywhere, it’s melting steadily in the sunshine. Victor sits and marvels at the city around him, admiring the people—the strangers!—walking to and fro, picking their way through huge slushy puddles and past rapidly-melting snowbanks. He knows the depths of winter still lie ahead, but after the endless ice and snow he has lived through, the warm air feels like the first day of spring.

He wonders how long it’s been, since he sat outside on a day that wasn’t the bitterest midwinter. He’d almost forgotten how beautiful it could be. 

Lunchtime rolls around. Victor takes Maccachin with him to the sandwich shop they both like, the one that allows pets inside. There’s a redheaded girl working behind the counter he’s never seen before; he has to resist the urge to ask her a dozen probing questions, reminding himself that he probably doesn’t have the time or ability to do a single thing for her before he leaves town. But Victor smiles and asks her how she liked the snow yesterday anyway, and is glad when he gets an answering smile back. He makes sure to wish her a lovely day and clean up his mess before he leaves. 

Victor has to leave Maccachin with the doggie daycare service for a few more hours—not by choice, but the GPF organization is less forgiving on the topic of dogs inside the arena than area restaurants are. He rides over with Yakov instead of walking, mainly to avoid attention. It only kind of works because there’s still a massive press junket at the skater’s entrance, but Victor only smiles and politely waves as they head inside, keeping pace with Yakov. 

“You can sit with me,” Yakov says as they come inside, before Victor’s had a chance to even ask where he should sit during the competition. 

“Alright,” says Victor, gratefully. 

They head to the back, on Victor’s insistence, where the competitors are stretching and doing their pre-performance routines. Victor’s first instinct is to make a beeline for Yuuri, to kiss him right there in front of everyone and tell him how eager Victor is to see him skate, but then his better nature reasserts itself and he makes a full round to greet all his peers and wish them luck. 

“Just try not to hurt yourself again between now and Worlds,” says Christophe, slinging an arm around Victor’s shoulders. “Winning just doesn’t taste the same if I haven’t beaten you.” JJ and Cao Bin come over, both echoing this sentiment moments later. Victor just laughs and promises to be there for the next competition. 

Michele is off in the corner with his sister Sara, but he brightens when Victor comes over to say hello and wish him luck. Victor takes a selfie with himself and both Crispinos, and then Victor is glancing around, looking for the person he’s most eager to see on the ice.

Yuuri is on the other side of the room, caught up in conversation with Celestino. Victor hangs back for a few moments, wanting to let them finish, but Yuuri catches sight of him over his coach’s shoulder and his expression changes, going hot and complicated. “Victor,” Yuuri says, and stops.

“Hi, Yuuri,” Victor says. Words stick in his throat, but he manages a smile anyway. 

Celestino glances between Yuuri and Victor, eyebrows raised, and then just smiles, patting Yuuri on the shoulder. “Don’t be long,” he says, and heads over to talk to Yakov, who’s busy looking disgruntled over by the door.

“How are you feeling?” Victor asks, at the same time as Yuuri says “Are you feeling better?” They stare at each other for a moment, and then Yuuri laughs. It does something to Victor’s stomach, like he’s suddenly found himself on a rollercoaster as it bottoms out. 

“I’m okay,” says Yuuri. His voice is soft, but he’s finally returning Victor’s smile. “Pretty nervous.”

“I know,” Victor says. Yuuri raises his eyebrows, and Victor wonders if he left his brain in the Black Sea or something. He switches to Japanese, hastening to add, “I mean—you’re a great skater. I know you’ll make everyone proud.”

“How are you so bad at this?” Yuuri asks, also in Japanese, but he’s still smiling. “Didn’t you just spend all this time practicing how to be better with people?” 

“That’s not all I practiced,” Victor says, confirming once and for all that he froze what common sense was left to him. He stares at Yuuri, who stares back at him, and then Victor covers his face with both hands as he feels himself turn crimson. Yuuri starts laughing, and the sound is intoxicating, sweet, like the bubbles in a glass of champagne. 

“I can’t believe I was too nervous to even talk to you before,” Yuuri says. Victor recovers himself enough to drop his hands, and the part of him not busy being appalled notes that Yuuri looks more relaxed now, his face warmer, more open. 

“Don’t tell anyone, you’ll ruin my reputation,” Victor says after a moment. 

“I don’t have to, you’re doing just fine,” says Yuuri. 

Victor grins. He’s about to say something else when an official pokes her head into the room to call for the first competitor. “Ah,” says Victor, “I have to go. But listen, Yuuri—“ 

He takes a deep breath. The words leave his mouth before he can stop them, rash and too honest. “Skate for me,” he says. “Seeing you skate was all I wanted when I was—when I was stuck. So please show me how beautiful you can be.” 

He wants to take it back as soon as it’s out of his mouth, cursing his own clumsiness. But Yuuri’s eyes go wide, and he nods, determination coming into his face. “Watch me,” he says.

Victor smiles. “I will.”

* * * * *

It’s the first time in many years that Victor sits on the sidelines to watch the men’s Senior division performances—not since he was in the Junior division has he been a spectator here. It doesn’t hurt as badly as he would once have expected, but then, Victor has changed a lot since his last Grand Prix Final.

The performances are spectacular. Victor knows exactly how hard everyone worked to get here, and this time he can focus on his friends without being distracted by his own upcoming routine in the back of his mind. He cheers and waves and applauds as loud as anyone else in the room, heedless of the cameras that keep pointing at his face. 

But when Yuuri comes out, the rest of the rink ceases to exist. Victor can only stare as the man who stole away his heart emerges onto the ice and _transforms_. Yuuri’s performance is not perfect—even as he finds himself captivated, Victor notes a few missteps and over-rotations—but some inner fire has lit up Yuuri’s skating until he is so brilliant Victor thinks he might go blind, making his errors seem insignificant, trivial.

How many years have I waited for this, Victor wonders. How many lifetimes? 

When Yuuri finally slows to a halt, his arms folded over his chest, back arched like a bow, Victor can’t even move. He stands where he is, hands over his mouth, as the rink erupts in cheering around him. Yuuri holds his ending pose for a few moments, breathing hard, and then he twists around, searching for someone or something in the crowd. His eyes fall on Victor, and Victor’s heart leaps in his chest.

He kisses his folded hands and then blows across his palms towards Yuuri. Yuuri’s eyes go wide, and he breaks into the most gorgeous smile Victor’s ever seen in his life. 

You were worth it, Victor thinks. Every minute of it.

* * * * *

Victor takes sixth place, of course. With no free program score to add to his (admittedly impressive) short program, he’s dead last.

Christophe wins gold—something he richly deserves, in Victor’s opinion—and JJ narrowly edges out Yuuri for the silver medal. Yuuri’s magnificent free program is enough to lift him from sixth place to third, despite his fumbles in his SP. Victor cheers louder than anyone else as the champions do their lap, applauding so hard his hands hurt. He corners Christophe and JJ backstage afterwards to congratulate them again—elbowing a few paparazzi out of the way in the process, albeit gently—but after that he makes a beeline for Yuuri.

Celestino is beaming and organizing the journalists and photographers who want pictures with Yuuri. Victor hangs back this time, because he’s not sure he can contain himself once he has Yuuri’s attention. It’s actually Celestino who spots Victor first, and he grins broadly. “Watch out, Victor!” he booms, smacking Victor on the back. “We’re going to beat you for real at Worlds!”

“I’m looking forward to it,” says Victor, but he only has eyes for Yuuri. Yuuri is staring back at him, still sweaty and red in the face, but his smile outshines the medal hanging around his neck. “Congratulations, Yuuri. That was amazing.”

“Thanks,” Yuuri says. Celestino says something else, but Victor doesn’t even register it. After a moment Yuuri’s coach pats him on the back and then turns away, leaving Victor and Yuuri alone for the moment.

“What are you doing tonight?” Victor asks. He steps a little closer, dropping his voice. 

Yuuri shrugs, but he doesn’t take his eyes away from Victor’s face. “I don’t have any plans, yet,” he says.

“I was hoping you’d let me help you celebrate your victory,” says Victor. 

Yuuri grins; Victor is temporarily distracted by the adorable way his nose crinkles when he smiles like that. “It’s a bronze medal, not Olympic gold,” he says. “B-But um, I’d like that.”

“Wonderful,” says Victor, and beams.

They get Italian—Yuuri’s pick. Later, Victor can’t recall a single thing they talked about at dinner, can’t recall what they ordered, or even what it tasted like. He assumes it was good—he’s eaten at that restaurant countless times, now—but the only thing he can concentrate on is Yuuri. 

It doesn’t matter that he’s been on hundreds of first dates with Yuuri, that he knows Yuuri grew up idolizing him, that Victor has won gold at every single competition he’s been able to complete for the past five years and could have theoretically almost anyone he wants in his bed. What matters is the way Yuuri’s hair falls in his face when he tilts his head a certain way, the softness of his skin when Victor brushes his fingertips over the back of Yuuri’s hand. His smile, the sound of his laughter, the way he switches over to Japanese whenever he can’t find the right word in English.

“You can talk to me in Japanese, if you want,” Victor says at one point. 

Yuuri hesitates, reddening a little. Victor seriously considers just shoving the table out of the way to get closer to him. “Your accent is still kind of bad,” Yuuri admits after a moment. “It can be hard to understand.” Victor’s jaw drops open. Yuuri starts to laugh, and then has to cover his mouth with both hands, eyes wide, embarrassed at his own reaction. “Sorry! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—“

“I had no idea Celestino taught his students such cruelty,” Victor says mournfully. “So mean, Yuuri.” Yuuri groans. 

After dinner, Victor and Yuuri return to their hotel (going in the back way to avoid more photographers). Victor accompanies Yuuri into the elevator, and then pauses, glancing over at his date. “Do you want to come join me for a little while?” Victor asks. He’s unaccountably nervous.

Yuuri gives him a small, shy smile. “I’d like that,” he says, in Japanese. Victor stares at him, feeling the idiotic smile spreading across his face and unable to stop it. After a moment Yuuri reaches out and presses the button for Victor’s floor, raising an eyebrow at Victor as he does so, just this side of insolent. 

Victor has no choice but to lean over and kiss the smirk right off his face. Yuuri groans into Victor’s mouth, and Victor’s heart stutters in his chest. 

They get to Victor’s room. Maccachin—dropped back off at Victor’s room by the pet sitter while he was out—starts barking even before Victor’s finished swiping his card to let them in. Immediately, Victor panics. “Ah—I’m sorry, I should have remembered—I’ll call the pet sitter right away—“

“What? No, you don’t have to do that,” Yuuri says. He sounds startled. Victor is already walking across the room towards the hotel phone. He picks up the receiver and immediately drops it, wincing as it clatters on the ground. Victor bends to pick it up, but Yuuri beats him to it. 

“Victor,” Yuuri says. “Victor, calm down.” 

Victor blanches. He looks up at Yuuri, trying to summon a smile, to reassure himself as much as the other man. “Are you sure? I can call the pet sitter, it’s no problem.”

“I really don’t mind,” Yuuri says. His voice is very gentle. “He slept with me the last two nights, remember? Let’s just put him in the living room.”

“Okay,” says Victor weakly. He gets up to escort his dog into the living room, and takes a few moments to crouch and bury his face in Maccachin’s soft fur once they’re there. “Sorry,” he mumbles, and hugs his dog tight.

Yuuri is waiting for him on the couch when Victor returns, shutting the door gingerly behind him. Victor comes and sinks onto the cushions next to him, trying to master himself. Yuuri’s hand sneaks into his, and Victor startles a little. 

“I thought I was supposed to be the nervous one,” Yuuri says in a low voice. He squeezes Victor’s hand, and Victor’s chest eases enough for him to squeeze back. “Is something wrong?”

Victor lets out a shaky breath. “No, nothing’s wrong,” he says. He lifts his eyes, staring at Yuuri’s face, and the kindness there makes something inside of him ache. “I just—“ Victor takes a deep breath. “If I screw things up with you tonight, I don’t get a do-over in the morning.”

Yuuri’s expression softens. “Well,” he says, “if it doesn’t go quite right, then… we’ll just have to do better next time.” He blushes as he says this, but he keeps hold of Victor’s hand and doesn’t drop his eyes. 

Victor finds it suddenly difficult to breathe. “Okay,” he says with an effort, and smiles. When Yuuri leans in, Victor meets him there, kissing him slow and soft. 

It takes him a few minutes longer to get past his nerves, but Yuuri is a wonderful distraction. Victor takes his time, slowly peeling Yuuri’s clothes off him and stopping in between items to kiss as much of the newly-exposed skin as Yuuri lets him get away with. They move to the bed, and soon Yuuri is squirming on the sheets beneath Victor as Victor licks and nips his way down Yuuri’s lean frame. He stops long enough to pay special attention to Yuuri’s nipples, teasing them between his lips until they harden into red little pebbles against his tongue. Yuuri’s tight, shaky little breaths go straight to Victor’s cock, the heat burning through much of his remaining nervousness. 

“Agh, stop grabbing that!” Yuuri tries to shove Victor’s hands away from the scant remaining pudge he carries at his waist, a whine creeping into his voice. Victor smirks, grabbing Yuuri’s hands and pinning them at his sides as he straddles Yuuri’s hips. He bends down to capture Yuuri’s mouth in a long, heated kiss, and Yuuri moans, shuddering underneath him. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Victor says. Gravel has crept into his voice, hoarse in his own ears; he watches the flush as it spreads from Yuuri’s cheeks down his throat, into his chest. “Every single part of you.”

Yuuri mutters something unintelligible in Japanese, but gives Victor a helpless sort of smile anyway. Victor bends down to return to kissing his chest, only to discover Yuuri’s leg shoving him back again. “Stop holding me down,” Yuuri says, though his voice is fond. “I want to touch you, too.”

Victor pouts melodramatically, lower lip stuck out like a child, until Yuuri starts laughing. Only then does Victor let go of his wrists, allowing Yuuri to roll him onto his side, Yuuri’s hands slipping to Victor’s stomach, under Victor’s shirt. 

A few minutes later they’re both naked, Victor on his back with Yuuri on top of him. Victor couldn’t be more thrilled to see this boldness from Yuuri, especially considering how shy and withdrawn he so often was that first day together. Yuuri pushes Victor down on the bed, then crawls down his body, settling between his thighs. Victor props himself up on his elbows, spreading his legs apart a little to give Yuuri more room, groaning as Yuuri wraps a warm hand around Victor’s cock. 

“Yuuuuri,” Victor sighs, hips lifting slightly. Yuuri peers up at him, messy hair falling in his face; he set his glasses aside at some point, and his eyes are huge and dark without them, too gorgeous to be legal. 

Victor’s cock is hard, red, leaking a little pre-come from the tip. Yuuri strokes him lightly, and Victor shudders, his cock twitching against Yuuri’s palm. Yuuri leans forward, pulling Victor’s foreskin back and exhaling hot breath against sensitive skin, making him groan. That’s all the warning Victor gets before Yuuri wraps his lips around his cock head, suckling noisily. 

“ _Ffggghhhh,_ ” says Victor, hissing out a few choice curses. Yuuri shuts his eyes, and Victor has just enough brains left to notice the expression of bliss on Yuuri’s face as he slowly starts to take more of Victor into his mouth. 

Victor would be able to guess, even if he didn’t know already, that Yuuri doesn’t have much experience at oral sex. He also could not possibly care less, because the clumsy way Yuuri blows him is so hot it melts what remaining braincells Victor has. It’s messy, Yuuri unable to keep from drooling on Victor and himself; he keeps going a little too deep and gagging around Victor’s prick, making his eyes water. Every time he makes that rough little noise, Victor wants to grab his head and fuck Yuuri’s face until he’s crying, until he’s hoarse from having Victor’s cock down his throat. Instead, Victor grabs the blanket and bites the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

Yuuri pulls off to take a breath, shoving his hair out of his face. “I used to daydream about doing this when I was jerking off,” he says. 

Victor nearly chokes on his tongue. “ _Yuuri,_ ” he groans, and gasps as Yuuri swallows him down again. “Stop, stop, stop—“

“Mmnnnph?” Yuuri manages to sound put out around a mouthful of cock, and Victor has to sit up, holding on to his self-control by the thinnest of threads. 

“You can’t just say that and expect me to survive,” Victor says, strained. “Stop, please, I don’t want to come yet—“

Yuuri does pull off then; his expression is sulky and a little wicked, and it makes Victor weak. “But I want you to,” he says.

This boy is going to be the death of him. Victor will die happy, at least. “I want to, too,” he says after a moment. “But I was hoping to do it somewhere else.” 

Yuuri stares at him for a moment, and then his eyes widen adorably. “Oh,” he says, and lets Victor drag him up his body for another searing kiss. 

Turnabout is fair play, however, and soon Victor has Yuuri on his back, Yuuri’s legs draped over Victor’s shoulder as Victor buries his face between Yuuri’s thighs. He kisses his way down Yuuri’s beautiful legs, unable to keep from leaving a few bruising marks on those muscular thighs (and oh, the desperate little noises Yuuri makes as Victor sinks teeth into him are gorgeous). Then he licks a hot stripe from Yuuri’s hole up to the base of his cock, reveling in the shaky cry it earns him. 

“ _Victor!_ ” 

“Just lay back,” Victor tells him, and leans down again, silencing further protests by pressing his mouth to Yuuri’s pucker. Yuuri whimpers and sobs, slipping into Japanese as Victor eats him open. Victor loves doing this, loves how messy and lewd it is, how it destroys Yuuri’s ability to talk; he can feel Yuuri’s thighs shaking against his hands where he’s pushed Yuuri’s legs open. He shuts his eyes, thrusting his tongue deeper into Yuuri’s ass, feeling spit drip down his chin, his jaw starting to ache as he coaxes Yuuri’s muscles into relaxing. 

It’s the most satisfying feeling in the world when Yuuri’s hips lift and he chokes on a cry, an orgasm taking him hard and by surprise. Victor sits up, wiping his arm across his mouth and grinning wolfishly at Yuuri. Yuuri looks _wrecked_ : mouth open, face and chest splotchy red, his eyes glassy, his beautiful cock leaking against his abdomen, his everything in sweaty disarray. Victor’s own cock twitches as he takes in the sight, and he can’t help but think how grateful he is that he can undo Yuuri the way that Yuuri undoes him just by existing. 

“I’m going to brush my teeth, and get a washcloth,” Victor says, running his hands up Yuuri’s flanks, like soothing a startled horse. “Do you want a glass of water?”

Yuuri exhales hard. “Yes please,” he says; his voice is shaky. God, he’s so beautiful. Victor drops a kiss on Yuuri’s jaw, and vanishes into the bathroom briefly. When Victor returns, Yuuri has collected himself somewhat, enough to sit up and pull Victor in for a kiss. 

“You have to skate tomorrow,” Victor murmurs, in between kisses. He sets the water glass on the bedside table, then crawls onto the bed next to Yuuri, willingly letting the other man draw him closer. Victor takes the washcloth and starts to clean Yuuri’s stomach and thighs. “Are you sure you’re okay to keep going?”

“Yes,” Yuuri says, firmly. “I want to. My exhibition skate’s not that difficult.” 

Victor wants to argue with him more, wants to put Yuuri’s well-being first, but Yuuri cuts him off with another kiss, sliding his fingers through Victor’s hair. The sensuous press of his fingers sends a shiver down Victor’s spine, and with it goes the last of his objections. “Okay,” he breathes, and seals his mouth to Yuuri’s, kissing him hard. 

He retrieves lube and condoms from the bedside table while Yuuri drinks his water, and they settle in again, Yuuri stretching out on his side with one leg propped up, Victor laying behind him. Victor nuzzles Yuuri’s neck and ear, whispering soft, stupid things into his ear as he slowly works Yuuri open. 

“Touch yourself for me?” he wheedles. Yuuri is shy about some things, and Victor knows it, but he can’t resist asking. Yuuri mutters something deprecating in Japanese but obliges anyway, stroking himself and moaning as Victor grazes teeth along his neck. Victor takes his time, but Yuuri is already sensitive and looser from his first orgasm. Soon Victor has three fingers inside of Yuuri, twisting teasingly as he finds the bundle of nerves that make him gasp and tremble against Victor like a plucked string. He’s so, so beautiful, so captivating that Victor could look at him and nothing else for the rest of his life and be totally satisfied. 

“Vic—tor—“ Yuuri’s breath hitches as Victor twists his fingers, and he whines, pushing back against Victor’s hand. “P-please, I’m ready—“

The _please_ is like a match to gasoline. Victor’s breath leaves him in a _whoosh_ , and he buries his face in Yuuri’s neck for a moment, trying to collect himself. “You’re too much,” he mumbles. 

“Victor, please…” 

“Alright, alright,” Victor says, because if Yuuri keeps begging him Victor will just keel over and die. He tilts Yuuri’s face towards him, kissing him thoroughly, and then pulls his fingers out. Victor helps Yuuri lay on his back, a pillow under his hips as Victor settles between his thighs, gently pushing Yuuri’s legs apart and back. Yuuri smiles up at him, and for a few seconds Victor is struck dumb, just staring. 

“Victorrrrr…” Yuuri wiggles his hips, raising his eyebrows.

“S-Sorry!” Victor bends over Yuuri, stealing another kiss and stroking Yuuri’s cock a few times, making him gasp into Victor’s mouth. Then he slides the condom on with fingers that are just a little unsteady, and positions himself at Yuuri’s hole, pushing in slow and careful. Victor pays close attention to every shudder, every sharp gulp of breath that Yuuri makes, pausing several times to give Yuuri time to adjust.

Finally he’s all the way in. Yuuri is so hot and tight around him, he feels fucking amazing, but Victor is mesmerized by the expressions Yuuri makes, by the way pleasure looks on Yuuri’s beautiful face. “Yuuri,” he whispers, dazed. He leans down, brushing his lips against Yuuri’s, and Yuuri sighs into his mouth, wrapping his arms around Victor’s shoulders. 

They start slow, Victor taking his time and using plenty of slick to make sure nothing hurts, that all Yuuri feels is pleasure. But soon they have a rhythm, and Yuuri is moaning into his ear, pressing fingertips harder into Victor’s back and shoulders, and Victor loses track of everything that isn’t his lover. Outside the world could drown in icy winter again for all Victor knows; this could be their first time or their thousandth time together, and he wouldn’t be any less drunk, any less in love.

But Yuuri, Victor knows from experience, has much more stamina than Victor does, and would have the advantage even if he didn’t make Victor so weak to start with—to say nothing of already being one climax up. Victor finds himself braced on his forearms, Yuuri bent in two as Victor fucks him steadily into the bed. By now Yuuri is gasping and sobbing into Victor’s ear, clinging to him in desperation; Victor can feel the sting of nails on his back and feels a flash of lust and delight at knowing he’ll have marks there later. 

“Yuuri,” Victor pants. “Ah—I’m—I’m close—“ He groans, pressing his face into Yuuri’s neck, resting for just a moment in order to reach down and grab himself at the base of his prick, his cock throbbing painfully in protest. He’s going to lose it soon, no matter what he does, but he’s determined to see Yuuri come again before he lets himself go. 

Yuuri grabs his face, kissing him hard, and there’s more teeth now than before, Yuuri’s desperation feeding Victor’s own. Victor lets go of his own cock and palms Yuuri’s instead, earning a gasp as Yuuri’s hips jerk against him. “You’re so beautiful,” Victor murmurs, in Japanese. Yuuri’s eyelids flutter, his mouth hanging open as he pants. 

Victor starts to thrust again, bracing on just one hand now. Yuuri moans and writhes beneath him on the bed as Victor strokes him in time with his thrusts, and Victor watches as Yuuri comes apart, his second orgasm finally crashing over him—his whole body tenses, mouth falling open as he gasps for air, clenching hard around Victor’s cock as he spurts across his stomach. The sight by itself is enough to destroy the fragments of Victor’s self-control, and he thrusts hard into Yuuri, eliciting a wrecked cry. Victor comes perhaps thirty seconds later, face buried in Yuuri’s chest and his cock in Yuuri’s ass, blacking out his sight. 

They lay for a few minutes together, until Victor realizes he’s probably crushing his partner and wiggles off him to lay alongside him instead. He manages to tie off the condom and toss it in the bin, and then drags himself off the bed to go get another washcloth. 

When he gets back, Yuuri stirs slightly, blinking up at him with a sweet, contented expression that does awful things to Victor’s lovesick heart. “That was amazing,” Yuuri says, and stretches. 

Victor grins, sitting next to him on the bed and setting about cleaning Yuuri up, keeping his touch soothing and gentle. “You’re amazing,” Victor says. 

Yuuri laughs. “I think I get to be the one saying that,” he says. “All I ever wanted was to skate on the same ice as you, and somehow I ended up with you as my first time.”

Victor’s hand stills where he’s still cleaning Yuuri’s hip. He looks up at Yuuri, his stomach doing a scary little backflip. Yuuri blinks at him, sensing a change. “What?”

“That was your first time?” It comes out almost squeaky, which would be embarrassing if Victor wasn’t so busy being flabbergasted. “Yuuri! Your _first time?_ ”

“Well—!” Yuuri flushes. “I-I mean, I’ve messed around a little bit before, b-but that was my first time doing—that. All the way.” Victor buries his face in his hands. “Victor, what’s wrong?”

“You never told me that!” Victor doesn’t know whether to cheer or laugh or cry. All this time, so many days of coaxing Yuuri into his bed, now Yuuri is _finally_ here for real, and Victor had no idea. “Yuuuuriiiii….!” 

“Don’t tell me you regret it.” The anxiety in Yuuri’s voice brings Victor up sharp. He sits up, reaching for Yuuri and hugging him close. 

“Never,” he breathes. “I just—I would have been more careful—“

“Stop that,” Yuuri cuts in. He cups Victor’s face in both hands, Victor left staring helplessly back at him. “I loved it. It was perfect. It was exactly what I wanted.” 

Victor lets out a shaky breath, and then smiles; Yuuri smiles back, and it’s enough. More than enough—it’s everything. Victor kisses him softly. “Okay,” he murmurs. “Okay.”

* * * * *

Yuuri stays the night. Victor wakes up several times, and each time there’s a moment of panic and resignation, expecting to find a snowstorm raging outside and his bed empty save for his dog. The sight of Yuuri’s peaceful, sleeping face is sweet relief every time. Victor wraps around Yuuri, inhaling the smell of his hair and skin, quietly reveling in the ache it causes in his chest.

He didn’t have the nerve to ask if he could be Yuuri’s coach before they went to sleep. He wants it desperately—could think of nothing else since Yuuri suggested coaching as a vocation, actually—but after watching how beautifully Yuuri skated during his free program, Victor is reluctant to try to steer him down a different path. He contemplates offering to go to Hasetsu, so that Yuuri wouldn’t have to change so much, but the idea of abandoning Yuri Plisetsky and his other obligations turns his stomach. 

What Victor wants, more than anything, is to be allowed to watch over Yuuri, to take care of him and guide him and help him blossom into everything he wants to be, but he doesn’t know if that desire is reasonable, or just selfish. 

And the very last thing Victor wants is to be selfish. He can’t go back to that life—and especially not where Yuuri is concerned. At least Yuuri is here, in his arms, he thinks to himself; he can have this much, can ask Yuuri to let Victor love him this way. It might be hard, especially if Yuuri trains elsewhere, but it’s a thousand times better than nothing.

* * * * *

Despite Victor’s best efforts, the next day goes by in a blur.

He wants to spend every waking minute with Yuuri, of course, but there’s too much to do. Victor may not have completed the free skate portion of the GPF, but he’s still a skating celebrity, and still plans to compete in the rest of the season, so there are interviews to do—both him and the other skaters. Victor resigns himself to being shepherded around by Yakov, and to smiling and posing graciously for everyone who wants a photo or a moment of his time. 

He gets just a brief respite before the exhibition skate and the other fanfare following the end of the GPF, and he spends it by stealing Yuuri to go walking with him and Maccachin along Sochi’s beach. It’s fairly empty today, despite the improved weather, for which Victor is grateful. Other people being present wouldn’t stop him from taking Yuuri’s hand, but he’s still reluctant to push Yuuri much—though he’s running out of time to ask.

Victor declines to participate in the exhibition skate, despite a surprising number of people who pressure him to do so. Yuuri and Yakov are both vocally supportive of him refraining, for which Victor is grateful. “You have to be fully healed for Worlds,” Yakov says, expression dark as a mountain troll. “No need for showing off when you didn’t even earn a medal.”

“You’re still recovering,” Yuuri tells him. They’re backstage before the exhibition, just briefly, because Victor is at loose ends and dislikes being in the audience when all he can do is wait.

Yuuri touches Victor’s arm gently, and Victor sort of forgets to pay attention to the topic at hand because he’s busy being distracted by Yuuri’s face. When will I see you again after tonight, Victor wonders.

Yuuri asks him something, and Victor startles guiltily. “Victor? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” he says, and reaches for Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri’s expression softens a little, and he laces their fingers together. “I’ll see you after the exhibition, okay?”

“Please watch me,” Yuuri says. His cheeks pinken, but his voice doesn’t shake and he holds Victor’s gaze steadily. 

“I will,” says Victor. “I can’t wait to see you skate again.” He does not add that it’s the only thing he wants to do. Not in front of their coaches.

* * * * *

The exhibition, like the final free skates, is magnificent. Victor watches everyone perform and thinks about how long he spent wanting more than anything else in the world to be the man all eyes were on, down in the spotlights. He wonders whether that feeling had already started to wane by the time he got sucked into the blizzard, or if he only realized it when forced to confront himself. Either way, he finds he’s not particularly sad to have lost that drive, the need to be the best.

Yuuri, though—Yuuri manages to be even more radiant than he was during his free skate. Victor thinks he can tell a few times that Yuuri is sore in places that are Victor’s fault, but as Yuuri said, his exhibition program isn’t nearly as technical as his competitive skating, and he doesn’t over-rotate or miss a single step. The insecurity Victor knows all too well is totally absent, leaving only a magnetism that’s apparent in every single jump, every flip and spin, every aching glance he throws over his shoulder.

He’s perfect, and beautiful, and so talented. He has areas to improve in, but—but he doesn’t need Victor to do it. Victor claps hard, cheering as loud as anyone else, and if his eyes are too bright, at least no one is looking at him right now to see.

* * * * *

The banquet is … frustrating, until it’s not.

It’s incredibly crowded in the banquet hall. All the professional skaters are here, obviously, as well as their coaches and family and loved ones, and in addition there’s a panoply of judges, important personages who scored VIP passes to the banquet, and other people that Victor strongly suspects did something like hide in the bathroom and then sneak past security. (At least those people are fun to talk to.)

What this means for Victor is that although he tries his damnedest to stay with Yuuri, to give Yuuri all of his attention, they keep getting separated. Rival skaters, rival coaches, ISU judges, members of the press, even his own rink-mates keep interrupting them. And if they aren’t there to talk to Victor, they’re there to steal Yuuri’s attention, which Victor actually finds worse. He can’t blame anyone who finds Yuuri compelling, but the jealousy that twists through his stomach like a cramp every time someone comes over to Yuuri and presses a drink into his hands in congratulations makes Victor feel a little like he’s losing his mind. 

Victor knows that’s the whole point of the banquet, to mingle and have a good time, but what little pleasure he’s taken in the event in years past is currently gone. His only comfort is that each time he manages to excuse himself and slip off in the crowd to find Yuuri, Yuuri looks as relieved to see Victor show up as Victor is to find him. 

He’s is in the middle of telling Yuuri a story from when Maccachin was just a puppy, involving the destruction of one of Yakov’s most expensive pairs of shoes, when he gets accosted by one of the ISU officials. The man is vaguely familiar, and more than a little insistent, wanting to know how Victor is feeling now that he’s a few days out of the hospital.

“Well,” Victor says, trying valiantly to find a few scraps of patience. “I’m taking it slow, on my doctor’s and coach’s orders, but I really feel very good. I’m hoping to have no trouble returning to skating practice—“ 

“Do you think you’re going to be able to continue to recover from this kind of thing at your age?” asks the official, very earnestly. Victor thinks he can detect the faint but unmistakable smell of whiskey on the man’s breath, and he sighs inwardly. Oh boy, _this_ should be fun. 

“I feel good,” he repeats. “I can only do my best, and I’m honored to continue to be able to participate at this level of the sport.”

The official starts to drone on then, about all of Victor’s many accomplishments, and try as he might Victor can feel himself starting to zone out. He just can’t bear this much attention on his past accomplishments right now, not when he feels so disconnected from it, when he wants so badly to be able to head in a new direction. 

He glances automatically to the side, instinctively looking for Yuuri, but Yuuri isn’t there. Victor keeps turning, twisting around until he catches sight of Yuuri on the other side of the room, with Christophe. He’s laughing at something Christophe has said, another glass of champagne in hand, body language looser and more relaxed than Victor has seen him almost all night.

And he’s not even looking at Victor. Victor’s heart sinks, dropping down into his shoes; for a few moments his chest hurts too badly to even draw breath.

He masters himself with an effort, turning back to the man he was so rudely ignoring—and nearly drops his glass at the sight of the black-haired woman standing in front of him, arms crossed. “о боже,” Victor blurts, before he can stop himself. 

“I didn’t take you for this much of a fool,” says the witch. “Have you really come so far and learned nothing?” Narrowing her eyes, she raises a finger, and the sounds of the room around them fade, like volume being turned down. She’s clad in something the Romanovs would have been glad to wear, more elegant and fine than any dress Victor’s ever seen. Her hair is swept back from her face and pinned in an intricate pile atop her head with silver sticks; jeweled rings adorn her fingers. She’s speaking Russian, or—or maybe she’s not speaking at all, he really has no way of knowing. 

Victor swallows hard. He doesn’t bother to ask what she means. “I don’t want him to change his whole life just for me,” he says. “I can’t do that to him, he—he deserves better.”

“Have you asked him what he wants?” The witch raises her eyebrows. Her expression is calm, almost serene, but there’s a sharpness beneath that puts Victor in mind of midwinter cold, of sharp knives and black grudges. He has to try not to shiver, or look away; he doesn’t want to be disrespectful. 

“I haven’t,” Victor admits after a moment. “I…”

“This is the last lesson I will give you, Victor Nikiforov, so listen closely,” says the witch. Her eyes glitter darkly. “It is just as selfish and blind to assume you know what’s best for others as it is to focus only on your own wants.” 

Victor stares at her, stricken. The witch stares back, her expression unreadable. Then she smiles, ever so faintly, and puts her finger by her nose. She gives Victor a wink—and the sound all comes back at once, almost deafening after the quiet. Victor startles despite himself, wincing, and when he looks up, she’s gone.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out. The ISU official is staring at him expectantly, having clearly asked Victor a question, although Victor hasn’t the foggiest idea what it was. “I’m so sorry,” Victor says. “But I really have to go. If you’ll excuse me.” Without waiting for an answer, he turns and makes his way through the crowd, his heart in his throat.

Christophe is up ahead, but Yuuri is no longer there. Victor glances around, the stupid but still frantic idea occurring to him that maybe Yuuri has decided to leave the banquet early—that maybe he’s already gone—

“Victor!” 

Victor turns at the sound of his name and sees Yuuri has come up behind him. “Yuuri,” he breathes, his chest easing; he takes in the sight of his lover, Yuuri’s eyes too bright, face flushed in such a way that puts Victor in mind of things not safe for public eyes. “Yuuri, I need to ask you—“

“—I have something to tell you,” Yuuri blurts, at the same time, and then stops. Victor’s eyes widen.

“You go first,” he says, after a moment. Yuuri blanches a little bit, somehow unsteady on his feet, but when Victor reaches out to take his hand, he calms a little bit. Yuuri looks down at their joined hands, then back up at Victor, and the softness in his face is worth a thousand years of waiting. 

Yuuri takes a deep breath. “Please be my coach,” he says, too quickly. “I—If you decide to coach, then—“

“Please come to St. Petersburg,” Victor says. He stumbles over his words, suddenly finding that his hands are trembling. “That’s what I wanted to ask you. Please—come train with me. I can’t leave Russia right away, I have responsibilities to see to, but I, I want that too, Yuuri.”

Yuuri’s eyes go wide, his whole face lighting up. “Really?” 

“Really,” says Victor, and gasps as he finds himself with his arms full of a laughing Japanese boy, Yuuri throwing his arms around Victor’s neck to hug him tight. “Yuuri!”

“Dance with me, Victor!” Yuuri cries, in Japanese. That’s when Victor realizes Yuuri is kind of drunk. 

“Okay, Yuuri,” he says, grinning. People are staring, and Victor—

Victor doesn’t care. “Let’s dance,” he says, and lets Yuuri drag him towards where Christophe is waiting at the other end of the room with a wicked look on his face.

* * * * *

_If you were looking for a way to take people’s attention off your trip to the hospital, you succeeded,_ says the text from Christophe. Victor smiles, and types back. It takes a minute, because he’s typing one-handed.

 _It just kind of happened,_ he types, and hits enter. 

_No kidding,_ comes the response, almost immediately. _Also, congrats, I think. I’m kind of surprised, though. Since when are you so into that Katsuki kid? Is he okay?_

Victor glances over at the figure wrapped around him in bed, Yuuri’s face shoved into Victor’s armpit, his expression blissfully serene. He’s drooling on Victor a little bit. Okay, more than a little. He’ll have a headache when he wakes up, certainly, but Victor’s going to let him sleep as long as he wants to. 

_He’s fine,_ Victor sends. _We’re both fine._

* * * * *

Somewhere in the woods, a bird cries.

Victor slows, glancing around. “Maccachin!” he calls. His dog comes bounding back to him from where he’d disappeared into the underbrush, bouncing on his paws as though he were a dog of two years, instead of twelve. “Hey there,” says Victor softly, crouching to scratch his dog’s ears. “We’re almost there, so stay close, okay?”

He doesn’t have a particular place in mind, exactly, but he is here on a specific errand. He’ll know what he’s looking for when he sees it, he hopes. 

And it was quite the trip to get here. He’s a two-hour drive outside St. Petersburg to get to a nature reserve, and he’s been walking for close to forty minutes already. Victor wants to get as deep into the wilderness as possible, where no one will disturb him, or what he’s here to do. The reserve is verdant with spring’s fresh growth, winter—the longest winter of his life—finally receding as the summer approaches, and it has been no hardship to go hiking out here. But Victor is careful not to leave the path, half-eroded as it is.

Victor walks a bit further down the half-there dirt trail before he turns a corner and stops. Ahead of him is a small clearing in the woods, with soft green grasses and a sweet expanse of white flowers surrounding the base of a very old tree. It would take three grown men linking their arms to encircle the goliath’s mossy trunk; Victor thinks it must have been here for centuries, at least. 

He lets out a slow breath, and then crouches, reaching into the bag slung over his shoulder to retrieve the items he’s brought with him, adding them to what he carried in his arms. Victor arranges them one by one at the base of the tree, pleasantly distracted by the scent of the flowers. They’re so inviting, the wind a soft voice in the tree branches that whispers how easy it would be to lie down here, how pleasant to nap in the quiet woods.

Victor knows better, now.

Finally, he’s done. He sits back, examining his arrangement. In the middle is a gold medal, his most recent win at the Worlds championship. Next to it is a framed picture of himself with Yuuri, one they took at Yuuri’s family’s onsen back in Japan. Victor looks happier in that picture than in almost any other one ever taken of him in his life; he and Yuuri have their arms around each other, and Yuuri is wearing one of Victor’s sweatshirts. Yuuri is smiling, leaning into Victor, and he’s wearing a silver medal from Japanese Nationals around his neck. 

The next item is a metal flask, one that’s been in Victor’s family for a long time, full of high-quality vodka. The last is a bouquet of flowers: bluebells, hydrangeas, and irises, with a silk yellow ribbon wrapped around the stalks. Victor crouches in front of his pile of gifts for a moment, quietly contemplating the scene. Then he stands up.

“Thank you,” he says quietly. There is no answer from the woods, no voice in the wind, but Victor doesn’t mind. 

He gets up, straightening his jacket. “Maccachin!” he calls. “Time to head back!” His dog comes bounding out of the woods towards him again, answering his call with a happy bark. Victor grins down at him. “We have to get to the airport to meet Yuuri,” he says, scratching Maccachin’s head. “He’ll be so happy to see you.” Maccachin barks. 

As he turns back down the path, Victor starts to hum. Maccachin runs along beside him, bounding back and forth across the path, chasing the scents of animals and who knows what else. Victor lifts his head, glancing at the sky; it’s almost noon, and Yuuri lands in St. Petersburg at three. He smiles to himself. Plenty of time to get back, and at least a week to show Yuuri around the city, get him moved into their apartment and settled in before training officially starts. 

Victor knows, now, how precious each day is. He won’t waste any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, my Russian is only my best guess after research so please forgive me if I've goofed, but:  
> \+ "о боже" means "Oh my God"

**Author's Note:**

> \+ As it happens, the Grand Prix Finals in 2015 were actually hosted in Barcelona, not Sochi, but oh well.
> 
> \+ Yes, that woman in the woods may seem [vaguely familiar](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Baba_Yaga). 
> 
> \+ You probably guessed, but: "Дерьмо," _der'mo_ , is 'shit,' and "Черт побери," _chert poberi_ , is 'damn it,' ish, to the best I've been able to determine. Please feel free to correct me if I've bungled the translation!


End file.
